


Prison Bitch

by RegretMyChoices



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Dean Winchester, Alpha Sam Winchester, Alpha-to-Omega, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Body Horror, Bottom Dean, Gang Rape, Humiliation, Hurt Dean Winchester, Knotting, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Omega Dean Winchester, Psychological Trauma, Raped Dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 01:38:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8125510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RegretMyChoices/pseuds/RegretMyChoices
Summary: Alphas, Betas, and Omegas. The world has a structure, one that keeps it all in balance on the outside: more than one Alpha in a generation tended to throw that balance off. Best way to make a happy Alpha household would be to have an Omega. And nature’s little failsafe meant if you couldn’t have one born to you, a family of Alphas could damn sure turn one by fucking them into submission. Some would say it's the natural order, how to further a pack. But Sam and Dean would never betray the other.
On the inside, a prison full of aggressive Alphas, they’ve worked out their own system, a pecking order of sorts. With a lifetime worth of something to prove about his own Alpha status, Dean has every intention of fighting tooth and nail to make sure he doesn't become someone's punk. He never expected that anyone would find a way to turn him into an Omega Bitch.





	1. Alpha

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very dark fic, dealing with some very disturbing and triggering themes, including graphic rape, humiliation, disassociation, and trauma. Please proceed with caution if at all.
> 
> Eventual Wincest.

“God you couldn’t take a fucking shower after work? You smell like a locker room. They let you near our food like that?”

Manuel flops onto his bunk just before lockup and lights-out, arms outstretched, body reeking of cum and sweat and Alphas, and Dean wrinkles his nose in displeasure without looking up from the week-old newspaper the guard threw in at him, moving on from the cover story about him and Sam being locked up and on to page seven beneath the fold, scanning by reflex for a hunt.

His cellmate laughs like Dean said something hilarious and shakes his head. “Dude, no, you got it all wrong. I smell like the _shower room_. And that was _after_ I was done in the pantry. Alpha I got in there took me for a ride like you wouldn’t believe, left me all loose for the others…” Manny pumps his hips indicatively, humping the air, and dissolves into another laugh at Dean’s flat look at him.

“More like, ‘I believe but sure as fuck don't want to hear about it.’”

It’s been two weeks since Henrickson lived up to his promise and tossed Dean and Sam into prison, a week since he last saw his brother from more than 100 feet away, the Winchesters separated to different cell blocks. He sees his brother a floor down from him sometimes, signaling silently in gestures and expressions, but it’s not really enough to make a plan yet. They have to lay low and figure out how to get out of this mess, and if they even can. Dean’s not quite ready to give up on the idea of escape yet.

In two weeks, Dean has learned enough about the prison system to get by. All told, it ain’t a bad life. They feed him, the bed’s no worse than some of the hotel cots he’s slept on (which ain’t saying much about the accommodations, but says a lot about Dean’s lifestyle). People get hustled in poker just as well on the inside as they do on the outside. And the rest of it…

Well, he’s learned more about the rest of it from Manny than he cares to think about, even as he’s kept himself pretty distant outside of poker hustling and being put to work in the laundry room.

Alphas, Betas, and Omegas. The world has a structure, one that keeps it all in balance on the outside. On the inside, a prison full of aggressive Alphas, they’ve worked out their own system. There are the gangs, packs which clash amongst each other, and then the general population. Some make pacts, tumultuous little pseudo-packs for mutual protection on the inside, pooling resources and naturally falling into line under the most dominant Alpha among them. Lone wolves like Dean have to defend themselves from everyone at all times, fighting to keep people off of them, each an island to themselves. When they fail, when someone slaps a fellow Alpha down by forcing them to submit, they usually become punks: forced to suck cock or go ass-up for whoever can best them. It’s a rough life once word gets around that they’ve been turned out, until a punk gives up fighting and finds someone stronger, selling their ass off to them in exchange for protection.

And then there’s Manny, a self-proclaimed queen among punks. He’s got to be under the protection of at least a half-dozen of the biggest Alphas here, happy to drop to his knees and suck them off, in return for them keeping him safe from everyone else. The last time someone tried to rough Manny up so they could get some themselves, they ended up in the hospital eating through a straw. Even the guards love Manny, because inmates with an outlet are easier to handle, and Manny loves the dangerous ones. Dean’s seen him drop to his knees in the middle of the mess hall and suck off an aggressive Alpha gang leader, then go back to slopping food onto trays with a grin on his face, the guards letting it happen without a word.

In a prison without Omegas or Betas, Manny’s method lets him have his choice of protective partners. He’s not surprised that Manny’s letting them fuck him in pantry or in the showers, but it’s not an image he wants to consider. Not when the last time he was in the shower, he had to throw punches with a grabby Alpha just to keep them all away.

“Don’t knock it til you try it, my friend. ‘Sides, it’d be easier than that shiner you’re wearing. If they’d let little bro be in the cell block you two could watch each others backs, but on your own…” Manny sucks air through his teeth and shrugs, propping himself up on his elbow to watch Dean at their shared table as the guard calls it, cell doors sliding closed in one loud racket, interrupting Manny for the moment but not derailing him from the subject. “I’m telling you, just pick someone… not one of the gangs, and stay the fuck off my turf, but get someone with a little pack, and they’ll take care of you…”

“Sick of hearing about it, Manny.” Dean’s tired snarl is defensive, furious, and Manny shows his hands in an imitation of surrender before slipping off his bed and onto his knees, lips bared in a grin, knee-walking to between Dean’s bowed legs and sliding his hands up Dean's thighs.

“Sounding a bit tense there, Deano. Need me to help you blow off some steam?”

Dean lets Manny unbutton the crotch of his jumpsuit, reaching in to tug his dick out and lick it root to tip, moaning like it’s the best taste he’s had in years even though Dean knows he was probably sucking another cock less than an hour ago. Manny figures this is being hospitable, figures keeping his cellmate happy makes his life happier too, and Dean doesn’t discourage him.

Besides, it’ll keep his cellmate’s fucking mouth too busy to keep talking about Dean punking himself.

Dean knows it’s a stupidly sensitive topic. He’s spent his entire adult life defensive of his Alpha status, larger than life about it. Even beyond hunting and killing monsters, even beyond picking up a Beta or Omega at every stop along the way, he’s had something to prove. Because from the time Sam popped a knot at 16 and outgrew him almost immediately, he’s been getting appraising looks as soon as anyone saw Dean in the same room as his brother.

It’s rare for a family to have two Alphas in the same generation without at least sending one away to foster within the family, or with a family friend. An Alpha father raising two Alpha boys on the road, two Alpha brothers choosing to stay together as adults, people were bound to talk. Alphas get aggressive as hell locked in close quarters, which probably explains how fucked up prison systems are, and how screwed up Dean and Sam’s childhood was. Dad’s hunting buddy, Bobby, offered to take either of the boys in, but John couldn’t bear to give up either of Mary’s sons, and argued that hunting would let them work off their aggression just fine if it became an issue. They’d just all assumed, bookish and quiet as he was, that Sam would be a Beta. It’d be helpful for interrogations, less intimidating, help keep the Winchester Alphas balanced, but his little brother had gone and popped a knot, railed against his dad, and turned into the kind of Alpha nobody wanted to fuck with.

Which left Dean.

On his own, no one gives it a second thought. Dean’s tall enough to spare, would probably be taller without the bow legs, and he could kill pretty much any monster or man to give him cause to. But stand him next to Sam and those same eyes linger on his lips, on the nip of his waist, the curve of his ass, all with the same question on their mind: if his family wasn't going to send one Winchester away, why didn’t they at least turn the ‘pretty’ one.

Best way to make a happy Alpha household would be to have an Omega. And nature’s little failsafe meant if you couldn’t have one born to you, a family of Alphas could damn sure turn one by fucking them into submission. Most would say it's the natural order, how to further a pack.

Out there, he could fuck and fight his way across the country, use pseudonyms to make his brother and himself partners instead of brothers. In here, that means hundreds of frustrated Alphas who know his gargantuan brother is in lockup just down the way and every damn one of them seems to think he should have been on his knees years ago, and would be happy to be the one to knock him down.

So Dean takes out his frustration on Manny’s face, fingers tightening in overlong black hair and holding him in place as he fucks his cellmate’s mouth, talented tongue and lips coaxing him quickly towards the edge, a hand pumping the rest of his cock. Dean groans as he comes, Manny pulling off just in time to get another prison jumpsuit wrecked with cum, smirking his satisfaction at the speed he got Dean there. In prison, savoring the moment means a hell of a lot less than getting off without getting caught with your pants down, and Manny is a pro at getting people to orgasm at the speed he wants them to.

“You made a mess.” Dean protests, gesturing with a lazy flip of his hand at his cum-soaked cellmate, and Manny shrugs, unconcerned as he strips down to boxers and a sleeveless undershirt, watching Dean tuck himself away with a leer as he tosses his jumpsuit into the corner of the cell.

“Technically, _you_ made a mess. Thankfully I know someone that works at the laundry.” Manny laughs as he steals a handful of Dean’s poker-won cigarettes in payment and flops down on the bed again, still clearly sated from whoever fucked him earlier. He waits until the guard walks by, ensuring they're both where they’re supposed to be, and then scrapes a pilfered match and lights up, letting his breath out in a coil of smoke, looking like a fucked-out post-coital mess.

“Damn, man, must have been a hell of a lay.” Dean laughs despite himself, more relaxed now that he’s at least gotten off, and Manny grins lazily at him.

“Your brother’s hung like a fucking horse, man.” Dean tenses, torn between wanting news on Sammy and hating that Manny introduced the topic in a way so close to what’s been bothering him, but Manny keeps going without waiting for him to reply.

“They had him fixing the pipes in the kitchen today. Wasn’t hard to get him to agree to clean out the pipes for me, too, you know what I’m sayin’. Mostly, think he just wants news on you. My ass is a bonus.” Manny sucks in another puff of smoke as the lights buzz brighter for a moment, and he lets it out in a laugh as they go dark, leaving them in the dim light of the cellblock. “I think I’m insulted. My ass is fucking main event material.”

“Yeah, I’m sure it is." Dean rolls his eyes and folds his paper now that the lights are off, but needs to know more and keep Manny on topic, so he doesn't go veering in whatever the hell direction he wants again. "What’d gigantor have to say for himself? What’d you tell him…?” Stripping out of the jumpsuit, Dean makes use of the small sink and toilet in the middle of the room. Privacy goes by the wayside in prison immediately; anyone can walk by and look in on you doing your business on the john, you share a shower with fifty other Alphas at a time, and there are no curtains, no stalls. So gates locked, lights off, and just Manny in the room, puffing his smoke and courteously staring up at the bottom of Dean’s bunk above him, is about as private as it gets.

“‘Bout what he asked about you. I said you were a surly, twitchy pain in my ass, but that you keep the clothes clean and don't smell as bad as my last cellmate, so I couldn't complain.” Manny reaches up to ash his cigarette in the sink beside Dean, without getting out of his cot, their shared space no bigger than a walk-in closet. “He looked good. Insulted my food though.”

Dean laughs fondly, softly, and drags himself up to the top bunk once he's finished, to stretch out on the thin mattress as Manny gets up to take his own turn. “Sounds like him. Probably asking for more salads and shit.”

“Mm, boy definitely ate his greens growing up.” Manny rolls the words out appreciatively as he makes use of the can, and Dean rolls his eyes in the dark.

“Stop making me listen to you perv about my little brother, you jackass.” It's contact, no matter how little, and confirmation that Sam’s doing okay. If he'd been bruised or beaten, Manny would have seen it. He waits until Manny is washing his hands before asking, keeping his words deliberately casual and trying not to be too obvious about his hopes. “Sammy becoming one of your regulars now?”

“Why, you asking me to let your brother fuck me so you two can share me and pine over each other? That's some kinky shit there, man.” Manny swats Dean upside the head lightly for the warning growl that he ignores, dropping himself back into his bed. “You listen to me earlier? Like a fucking _horse,_ and cums like a fire hose _._ And the way he goes from sweet soft spoken boyscout to fucking like an animal? Of course I’m not letting that dick get away.”

“Dude. My _brother.”_

“Whatever, man, ain't my fault you’re a prude. Anyway, size of him in general, just how fucking _big_ he is _,_ I figure he could be a good ‘friend’ to make, if things ever go south. So yeah. We’re probably gonna be seeing more of each other, if you gotta give the speech about my intentions. You want me to pass letters or whatever through the mess to him, though, it ain't happening. Whatever got you two in here is some deep shit and I ain’t shoveling it. Got me?”

It's not much, but it's something. A pair of eyes to keep on Sammy, until he can figure out how to get them out of this mess.

“Yeah, man. No secret messages or whatever. Just wanna make sure he's okay.”

Manny snorts, and Dean can hear him rolling over, getting comfortable for sleep. “Your boy is fine. Worry more about yourself, Deano.”

*****

It doesn't take long for things to go south.

The shower times are mandatory, 45 minutes of the prisoners herded into a tile-lined room fifty at a time, crowded three to a shower station, all scheduled based on their work shifts. With Manny working at the mess and in everyone's good graces, he’s usually allowed to clean up from grease and food whenever he's not actively slopping it out, but Dean’s on the earliest morning schedule at the laundry, and that means rolling out of bed at 4:30AM as the lights slam on, guard banging on the cells, and being in the showers by 5:00AM, slamming down breakfast so he can get to work by 6:30AM.

Even ignoring that his entire life he’s spent up until the crack of dawn hunting and sleeping in until the afternoon, Dean’s just never going to be a morning person. Mornings without Sam jogging in dumping breakfast and a coffee on his nightstand to bait him into awareness? Those mornings suck even more.

So morning showers in a place where he has to literally watch his ass? He could do without.

The toothpaste is a clear gel in a clear tube, ostensibly so no one can smuggle anything in, but it always makes Dean feel like he's rubbing lube over his teeth. He lingers at the farthest sink anyway, eyes tracking anyone behind him in the mirror, body turned so no one can get the drop on him.

He can hear when one of the gang leaders decides to burn off some steam and put his punk to use, accompanied by hoots and hollers as he bends the pudgy inmate over in the middle of the room. The punk hangs off of the pipe of their shower as the gangster just wedges himself into the guy’s ass dry. His ragged cry is met with jeering, mockery from the whole room, and the gangleader smacks his ass repeatedly, making it jiggle as he jackhammers into the punk’s dry hole.

Sick as Dean finds it, it's the best distraction he’s gonna get.

Manny ditched him as soon as they hit the showers, and Dean can see his cellmate across the room jacking another gang member, a grin on his face that says he'll probably be on his knees in minutes, so Dean takes advantage of there being a couple of distracting floor shows to step under the only shower by some miracle without anyone else under it.

The other thing they don't tell you about prison is that the water pressure fucking sucks. Dean’s been in fleabag motels with better showers, so racing in and out doesn't work for shit. He’s trying to rush cleaning himself as best he can, though, ducking under the spray to get the stringent combination shampoo/body wash off himself. He doesn't hear the slap of feet on the tile over the people cheering on the rape across the room, until an arm is wedged across his neck, a hand crammed between his thighs.

“See you're not watching the show. You jealous, Winchester? Wishing it was you getting plowed. Well, my friends here could help. Earl was just saying you had the prettiest mouth he'd seen outside of a porno, Jessie wanted to ask if you wanted to play, and my friend there popping your cherry? We call him Trigger Finger. You wanna see why?”

Four guys, three clearly for muscle, and the fourth familiar. Bartlett is a talker, and he and Dean share a shift at the laundry, the lean inmate a regular source of irritation. Like Dean, he's a lifer. Unlike Dean, he's been in for a decade already and plays the game well.

Dean hoped he got the message about playing grabass when Dean clocked him on day two. Apparently, how he read it was ‘bring your friends.’

A dry finger shoves into Dean’s hole, nail catching at Dean’s puckered rim, and he’s _done._ Either he kicks these guys asses thoroughly, fights as hard as he’s able so people know to stay the fuck away from him, or he's gonna be punked in front of fifty guys, and the whole prison will know Dean Winchester has been turned out and his ass is up for grabs. The finger pressing dry into his hole already puts him in danger, and Dean’s lessons on kill or be killed date back to when he was a frikkin’ toddler. He doesn't even have to reach for the Alpha rage and aggression, he sinks into it like a second skin, letting red creep into his vision.

Grabbing Trigger’s arm around his neck, he twists his hips to jerk away from the finger in his ass, drops a knee for leverage, and flips the guy over his shoulder, holding on until he can hear the pop of dislocation and then socking him in the jaw as he drops his now limp arm. He doesn't wait for the second guy to finish running at him. Ducking beneath his arm, Dean rabbit-punches him in the kidneys and sweeps the legs out from under him in his lunge, off-balancing him. His head cracks off the slippery tile, eyes unfocusing, and that's two down.

Bartlett’s no match for Dean physically, but Jessie snatches him with one arm around his waist, other hand tangled at his hair, and shoves his hips out to try and bend Dean over, hard cock wedged to the crack of Dean’s ass, and the sounds are filling Dean’s ears now, echoing off the tile, a roar of inmates telling them exactly how to break in Dean’s ass, all the ways they want to see Dean raped, and that is not. Going. To. Happen.

With a snarl, Dean's fine control snaps. Hooking his arm over Jessie’s head where he’s bent over Dean’s back, Dean hooks his foot back between Jessie’s, wrenches him to the side, and holds tight as he drops them both.

Jessie’s neck cracking is loud in Dean’s ears, the body falling into the ankle-high water by the drains with a splash, erection still absurdly bobbing out before him, and for just a moment there’s silence as Dean rises back to his feet.

Any thoughts of this being over end when the riot begins.

Bartlett’s easily dismissed: Dean palms his face and bashes his head back against the pipe, dropping him, but others are grabbing at him, throwing punches at each other, the steam of the shower room and the overpowering stench of Alpha aggression seeming to make the room smaller than ever.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean watches someone take a swing at Manny, clocking him and taking him down to the tile floor where he dissapears beneath a naked body, and the rage at seeing his cellmate, his friend, treated that way pisses him off. They're fucking _monsters_ in here. No, they're worse. Monsters at least are only acting in their nature.

The gang leader is between Dean and where Manny has been pinned, the punk crumpled at his feet, ass bleeding pink into the water at their feet, so Dean spares the rapist asshole a fist to his swollen knot, and when Dean’s grabbed from behind again he assumes it's another of the gang and doesn't think twice, acting on instinct.

He’s smashed his assailant’s head into the tiles and is punching his teeth in before he registers that he has _fabric_ clenched in his fist to hold him there. A uniform shirt.

Shit. He just beat the crap out of a _guard._  
  
The effect is instantaneous: blinking, Dean's eyes bleed green again almost instantly, hand going limp, fingers checking the pulse of the man at his feet as the fight he started continues around him. When the other guards rush the room, Dean doesn't resist, linking his fingers together behind his head and letting them drag him out. All told, being thrown into solitary away from all the other inmates is probably exactly what he needs, let alone what he deserves.

****

“How is he?”

Sam probably could stand to be more subtle, or lead into it better. Manny glares balefully back at him, eyes black and lip split down the center, mouth angry red at the corners, bruised arms left bare in his wifebeater, standard issue coveralls folded to his waist. After a pause long enough to make it clear he has no intention of answering, Manny silently stalks past Sam towards the sinks.

Okay, it was insensitive to ignore that Manny was obviously in the thick of the fight Dean kicked off, and suffered the consequences of it. It's been less than a day, after all, and it's still fresh--no matter how quickly Alphas heal, Sam knows it doesn't erase everything. But right now, the only people who are going to see his brother for the next three months are guards, and one cook who’s agreed to shuttle three meals a day down to solitary for him. Manny’s seen him twice already, and that's more than Sam’s gotten to see his brother in weeks.

Now more than ever before, Manny is  the only point of contact Sam has to Dean, and he should probably be a little more grateful.

Trailing Manny quietly, shoulders ducked to make himself less imposing, he rests a hand on the smaller Alpha’s shoulders, raising his palms in surrender when Manny recoils and spins around to face him. “Hey, just me. I’m sorry, I wasn't going to… I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I’m worried, but it's no reason to be an asshole. How are _you_ doing?”

“Like you give a shit.” Manny snarls, and Sam’s frown deepens in concern, hazel eyes wide and imploring. Manny’s got his rough edges--hell, they all do here--but he's usually a pretty easy-going guy. “Fucking Winchesters. If you weren't so goddamn screwed up in the heads…”

“Is this about the fight…? Did Dean say something that…” Manny’s eyes narrow as Sam unthinkingly brings it right back to his brother, aggression bleeding off of him, and then Sam’s abruptly being dragged down into a kiss, hard and biting. He knots his fingers in Manny’s hair, almost as long as Sam’s own, and gives as good as he gets. It's a sudden change of tact, but if this is what Manny needs to deal with whatever is going on, then Sam’s down for it. He’s not the kind of Alpha to take anything that isn't freely given, and Manny’s one of the only people he runs into in this joint who isn't being coerced into taking a cock up his ass.

Sam sweeps the plastic plates off of the counter and into the sink, clattering, and if Manny’s coworker inmates care to come investigate, it probably won't be the first time they see him hoisted up, legs wrapped around a bigger Alpha.

Sam drops him onto the stainless steel surface, yanking down the coveralls around his waist and tugging his boxers with them, leaving them tangled around Manny’s ankles as he hoists the other man’s legs up and folds him nearly in half, ducking to get his ankles around Sam’s shoulders.

Manny plants a hand to his chest, holding him off for the moment, and Sam stills immediately.

“Woah, cowboy. Just a second. Front pocket, grab the rubber there. No glove no love, got me?”

“I fucked you bare yesterday.” Sam mutters, half concerned that he may have crossed a line the day before, but even the fact that Manny _has_ condoms is remarkable in prison. They don't hand them out, though maybe they should. Manny grabs his chin, forcing Sam to meet his eyes, and here's the source of the fury and pain and frustration.

“This morning two jackasses I didn't get the skinny on from the Doc first had a go at me in that goddamn shower.” Sam flinches, eyes searching out all the bruises, the cuts on his lip that he so callously disregarded before, conscious of the fact that Manny may need him to slow down, but true to form once he's talking he doesn't stop. Sam doesn't interrupt. “I ain't got a death wish, I’m outta here in six more years, I’m not gonna get knocked off by some disease. Doc’s got a soft spot for me, so I get to ask the skinny on studs before anyone gets a ride, and he tests me if something goes wrong then tosses me some rubbers until we get results. And if I give my fucking psycho cell-mate’s kid brother an STD, he's gonna rip my fucking throat out.”

He’s not wrong about that.

“Manny…” Sam pushes the hair back from his face, and before he can offer comfort, he's jabbed in the forehead by a single insistent finger, Manny’s knees tightening around his shoulders to drag him in.

“Shut the fuck up. I don't want a shrink, I want your goddamn cock in me, now, and I want you to fuck me so hard I can’t fucking think when I go to solitary to shove food in for your dumbass brother, or when I go back to the showers after that. So suit up, grab that fucking oil over there with those long ass arms of yours if you feel like a smooth ride, and get your dick in my ass, now, before the guard comes and breaks this up. You wanna do sharing and caring shit, try again tomorrow.”

Sam’s a considerate enough lover not to argue, even if he's pretty sure this isn't the healthiest coping mechanism, and the invitation to see Manny again tomorrow is welcome: he still needs to ask Manny more about Dean, when it won’t get his head bit off.

Ripping open the foil packet, he rolls the condom down his cock and does what he's told.

****

Manny dumps more honey and hot sauce into the mix warming over the stove, trying to mask the scent, when Bartlett startles him, leaning over his shoulder to dump the powder from a cracked open medicine capsule into the sauce, laughing when Manny tenses at his proximity.

“Don't worry, you're not the slut I’m looking for. But, I’ve heard from your satisfied customers that you're good at your job, so I won't even ask if you got it. How much did you add to the ‘special sauce?’ This first time’s gotta be a doozy.”

Manny grinds his teeth, and woodenly stirs the pot a few more times to distribute the drug more evenly, adding more honey figuring it’ll help hide the bitterness.

“Quarter cup in the sauce, splash in the mashed potatoes, another tablespoon in the drink. Got the rest tucked in Tupperware in the deep freeze til tomorrow morning. Won't last more than four meals.” Manny snaps the heat off and dumps the barbecue soaked meat onto a bun, tossing the pan in the sink immediately. He feels queasy just looking at it. “I still think this is a fucked up plan.”

“Thankfully, I don't give a shit what you think. You're not in this to think, you're in it because you're _convenient._ Given how many people bought in after this morning to invest in this plan.. _.”_ Bartlett holds up the empty capsule indicatively, then tosses it in the trash. “You don't want to know what’ll happen if you become _inconvenient.”_ Bartlett’s face is a bruise, making the slow, patronizing grin and pointed look he aims at Manny even more disturbing, and he flinches when the Alpha pats his cheek patronizingly. “Besides, you know more than anyone that this is what he _is.”_

Manny scowls at the other Alpha but doesn't retort, hefting the tray and turning away, to remove the hand on him. He's at the door when he pauses. “How long we gotta do this? How many meals?”

“ _All_ of them, until he's ready. And trust me, we’ll know when he’s ready. Now, go feed your friend his....” Bartlett’s laugh is cold, disconcerting “...his extra sloppy, sloppy joe.”

****

“Special delivery for the fucking asshole who doesn’t deserve it.”

The food slot slams closed, a tray of food and the familiar voice the only outside contact he’s going to have for however long they decide to keep him in the hole, and Dean can hear Manny dropping to sit in the hall outside of the temporarily open slot.

“Ain’t that the truth.”

The door is solid steel, the room so small that Dean can’t even stretch out on the bed at his height. One half is a solid concrete slab holding a thin mattress, another small slab protruding from the wall acting as a desk, a fixed backless stool bolted to the floor in front of it. To the back of the room, a toilet/sink combination is wedged next to a square of sloped tile floor with a drain inset in the floor, a showerhead embedded in the ceiling with no visible pipes, and only a knob to turn it on. Yellow-white light fills every corner of the room, and from the dome of a security camera stuck well out of his reach, Dean doubts switching that light off is in the cards for him.

He's a rat in a cage. But at least it has a separate shower. Small favors, given every movement is recorded.

For now, Manny’s just a voice. He can't see expressions, or watch his movements, but the guards won't even talk to him and a voice is a hell of a lot better than nothing.

“Use your fingers if you gotta, because they're not letting me send you utensils. You got five minutes to finish dinner and pass the tray back to me. You're supposed to be in no-contact isolation. This here is contact, and I ain't getting dragged into more shit for you.”

Dean winces at Manny’s words, grabbing the meal. He can guess how bad it got, just based on his cell mate’s tone and what he saw before he got dragged out, and that's on _him_. He killed a human being (even if it was a shitty one), beat the hell out of a guard just trying to do his job, and screwed over the only friend he's got in here.

“Look, man, I’m sorry.”

“I don't want to hear it, Winchester. I get it. You're so fucking set on no one fucking you that you'd rather other people got fucked over instead. Or fucking killed.” Manny’s head thumps against the door three times, and Dean can smell him now, and can smell Sam on him, too. “Just eat your goddamn dinner.”

Manny sounds off, sounds stressed and tired, and maybe that isn't a surprise. But Sam stopped by, and the scent of him is fucking strong. He hopes his little brother didn't do something dumb to make this worse for Manny. It's not his fault Dean got stupid and got caught.

Taking a huge bite of his sandwich, trying to get it done so they have more time to talk, for him to try and get info from the outside, Dean grimaces at the taste but swallows it down. Prison food is far from the best, but it's all he's got to choose from, and if he pisses off the cook at this point he’ll probably get shittier meals shoved in at him by silent guards.

“Sammy giving you a hard time?”

There's silence outside the door for long enough that Dean worries he missed Manny leaving, and when he speaks again his voice is unreadable. “He wanted to know how you're doing.”

Dean takes another wolfish bite to finish the sandwich, forcing the disgusting food down, to give himself time to think. He's trapped here. They could keep him in solitary for a damn long time, after what he did. The half-baked plans of escape they had revolved around him having access to chemicals and scouting out the laundry deliveries, and Sam having access to tools and ability to scope the rest of the joint out as facilities. Dean’s half has fallen through completely: there’s no fucking way he's getting out of _this_ cage in any reasonable amount of time, and frankly… Maybe it's what he deserves. Doesn't mean it's where Sammy should be though. Closing his eyes, Dean does what he's damn well supposed to, a lifetime mission, and takes care of Sammy.

“Just tell him…” Dean laughs, humorless bark, and washes it down with the bitter, burned coffee that suits his mood. “Tell him the accommodations ain't _that_ bad. Tell him it's better than that dive we stayed in, in Poughkeepsie. He’ll remember the place.”

He promised not to send notes through Manny, but goddamnit this is his _brother’s life_ and Dean’s not going anywhere. Doesn't mean Sammy has to stay. So he drops the codeword, and hopes the message gets through and his hardheaded brother gets the gist: Sam needs to find his own way out, and leave Dean behind.

The rest of the meal passes in silence, Manny apparently just not his usual chatty self (not that Dean can blame him), and Dean lightheaded and nauseous after making the choice to sacrifice himself to this for his brother. Passing the emptied tray back to Manny after he makes himself choke down the unappetizing food, Dean thanks him again and drags himself to the bed, flinging an arm over his eyes to block out the light and letting himself drift, unaware when the drugs drag him under.

****

As Manny files past the security room with breakfast, he watches the on-duty guard rewind the footage of Dean cramming his food down last night, laughing, and adds another to the list of people to watch out for if this goes south.

Waved in with a laugh and a look at the tray as the door buzzes, he bangs on Dean’s door and drags the slot open, dropping the tray onto it.

Scrambled eggs. Hash browns. Another cup of coffee and a plastic cup of milk. He swallows down the nausea looking at the tainted food gives him, and slides the drawer to push it into Dean’s cell. With the guard watching everything, he can't give a warning, and he can't trust anyone. “Chow time, Winchester. C’mon, up and at ‘em.”

Dean grumbles, and Manny has no doubt he just woke the man up. He bangs the drawer open and closed a few times to get his attention, and then flops down by the door. “You gotta eat so I can take the tray back, man, c’mon.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming. Shit, feel like someone took a baseball bat to my fucking guts.” Dean drops to the floor beside the drawer, pulling his tray onto his lap and eating there so he can hear Manny better, and his voice is slurred by the drugs.

Whatever Bartlett dosed the food with last night, it was strong. But the stomach pain, that's all on Manny. Closing his eyes, he listens as Dean slurps down the coffee, probably trying to shake off the effects, not realizing he's only making it worse.

“Shit, nothing _smells_ right. Think I’m gonna fucking hurl.”

Manny closes his eyes, arms wrapped around his knees and head resting against the bare concrete wall beside the door. “Better not hurl up my cooking, man, they ain't gonna like that. Just… Eat up, alright?”

There's no conversation in the morning, just an empty tray passed back, and then the sound of Dean shuffling back to the bed with a groan and a slurred apology about him not being a morning person.

By lunch, Dean’s living with his ass on the can, stomach cramping as it seems like his body’s trying to force out everything he's ever eaten in his life. He drags himself to the door for the battered Alpha/Omega trash novel Manny stole from the prison library and shoves into the slot for him, though, and forces down the meal so that they won't pull his only company away. He doesn't object to the choice of book. Manny knew he wouldn't; for all his tough act, Dean passed the fourth night they shared a cell together catching his cellmate up on the season of Dr. Sexy that hadn't hit the repeats channel in the rec room.

It ain't much, but Manny hopes it can either take his mind off things… Or put his mind in the right place, to make it easier.

****

Sam asks about his brother immediately, and Manny watches as his pupils dilate when he pulls the smaller Alpha closer, how his nostrils flare as he drags in the faint scent clinging to him, and it's so fucking infuriating how blind both of these bastards are to the obvious, and how tangled up in each other they are.

The younger Winchester fucks him like a goddamn porn star, bending him over in the pantry with his hands braced among canned foods, and he doesn't question the condom this time. He's sweet afterwards, though, and Manny can't handle that while he's doing this. As soon as he tells Sam what he got from Dean about some shitty hotel in Poughkeepsie, Sam stalks away, bleeding off despair, and Manny watches him go.

Bartlett doses the food.

Manny measures in the next portion of Sam’s cum into his brother’s food.

Dean eats it all, just like he's told, convinced he has a stomach bug leaving him muzzy-headed and nauseated, and he’s so fucking apologetic it makes Manny’s teeth ache.

The cycle repeats day after day for weeks, Sam dragged back just for the promise of hearing any word about Dean, Dean always asking for updates on Sam.

Dean pulls out of his ‘stomach bug,’ but his words are still slower, slurred, when he asks in the morning for the salted caramel pudding with dinner, and praises the recent meals. Manny can smell the sweet scent pouring off of him in the cell, catches the guards laughing at video of Dean in the shower, face tucked into the arm braced on the tile wall, bowed legs spread and hips thrust out, back to the camera but hand obviously working furiously as he jerks himself. It's always worse after the meals with the drug Bartlett dumps into his food, jacking up libido and dialing down his inhibitions as he laps up Sam’s cum in his drinks and food like it’s ambrosia.

The doctor declares Dean well enough to start his prison-mandated one hour, two days a week, for the rec yard.

Sam stops in the doorway of the mess like he was hit between the eyes by the scent clinging to Manny’s skin, no longer even recognizable as Dean’s. He manhandles Manny to his hands and knees on the floor of the pantry and presses his face to the tile, fucking him furiously, animalistically, and bare. Sam rams his massive knot against Manny’s hole and growls when he can’t fuck it into him. He seems shocked at himself when he calms down afterwards, apologetic as Manny kicks him out and slumps against the floor beside the door.

Bartlett takes one look at him when he arrives shortly after and grins at the evidence of Sam’s false rut, hauling Manny’s exhausted body to his feet and bending him over the counter, shoving his fingers into Manny’s abused hole and digging out everything he can of Sam’s fresh cum, dumping it into a pan with a can of chowder, and jerking off furiously into the bowl himself before dumping two pills in. When he leaves, he takes the Tupperware bowl with him, the last of the stock for in case Sam failed to show up.

Dean drinks the soup directly from the bowl, tongue darting out to clean every drop from the bottom and sides, and then asks about Sam so sweetly that Manny wants to scream at him, wants to bash their closeted brains out, smash their thick skulls together, wants to cry.

Bartlett hands off white coveralls for Dean with the laundry, instead of orange, giving the signal to everyone involved.

Dean drags himself to the bed, kicks off all his clothes, and jerks himself furiously to the scent that wafted in the open slot of the door, already writhing on the thin mattress before Manny’s even passed the guard room, unaware of the audience watching his desperation.

Manny’s forced to wait for the guard to buzz him out as they laugh and hoot over screens that show Dean rutting at the thin mattress, blanket sliding down to bare him entirely to the camera when he hoists himself to hands and knees, shoving his towel and pillow beneath his hips, bent over it to chase the friction on his cock. He’s increasingly desperate but unsuccessful at getting anywhere, but it doesn't matter: he can't stop trying until he passes out just like that--on hands and knees with his face pillowed on the mattress and bare ass hoisted in the air. An unconscious mimicry of presentation.

And Manny hates himself.


	2. Omega

The thin material of the white prison uniform clings to Dean’s skin, sticking to the nearly worn-through vinyl of the weight bench beneath his shoulders with sweat. There is no breeze to cool his skin, and the scent of hundreds of Alphas baking in the desert sun clings to every surface in the empty prison yard. He’s still dizzy, still weak, but he puts that down to being sick for the past couple of weeks, and tries to ignore it.

Behind one of the dozens of long, narrow barred windows is Sam, and Dean’s midway through a rep, squinting his eyes in the sunlight and surreptitiously trying to see if he can spot his brother so he better knows how to plan for their unlikely escape, when he hears the murmur of his guard and the shrill squeal of the gate opening.

He should still have ten minutes of rec time left. Tensing, Dean lifts the bar back up to the rack when his former cellmate’s voice reaches him. “Don’t strain nothing, Deano, it’s just me.”

It puts him off guard for just a split second; and that’s all it takes.

A heavy weight settles on Dean’s stomach, pinning him to the bench as hands grab his wrists as he braces the bar, threatening to crush him with the weight he’s been bench pressing. Dean instinctively draws his legs up, going to throw the weight off of him, when his feet are captured, thin-soled prison shoes knocked off as he kicks and thrashes against the hands pinning him.

He gets a good kick in, smashing in the unseen nose of one of his assailants, but the victory is short-lived. Pain seizes Dean, as his ankle twists in the hands of one of his attackers, and he draws in a deep breath to yell.

Unmoved, Bartlett smirks down at Dean and shoves a wad of soiled orange fabric into Dean’s mouth as an impromptu gag, hand planted over his mouth forcing his head back against the bench. “You hold onto that for me, Bitch. You ain’t gonna need it too long, but you gotta have something to suck ‘til you’re done cooking.”

He’s still thrashing, trying to bite Bartlett’s hand despite the ineffective gag, trying to throw his weight off, as his wrists are lashed to the bar, the weight on it increased to keep him from being able to simply lift his way to freedom, and another twist to his ankle grates bone on bone, leaving Dean panting as best he can through his nose, panic striking him finally.

The fabric tastes of salt and sweat, and it takes a moment for Dean’s saliva to soak it through and for him to recognize the tang of semen on his tongue.

Bartlett’s leer widens as he sees Dean recognize the taste, and he tuts quietly. “Poor little bitch. You just catching on? You should be used to the flavor by now, though. Shouldn’t he, Manny? See, your friend there’s been feeding you the ‘special sauce’ for about two weeks now. You’re all ripe and ready to turn.”

Twisting his head, Dean sees his cellmate swallow under his enraged scrutiny. He has the grace to at least look ashamed, dark eyes hollowed, forehead knitted and shoulders slumped. “Sorry, Deano. Told you that you shoulda just bent over, man.”

Bartlett uses the hand over his mouth to drag Dean’s gaze back, and leans over to grin down at his prisoner, and Dean flinches unconsciously as his legs are hauled up and out, the grip on his ankle unyielding. “Ain’t gonna have much choice in that now. Sounds like Earl crippled you already. See, he's a little pissed about you killing his cousin, and he'd be happy to hobble you permanent-like. I’m not too particular on it, so if you give him a reason I’m gonna let him hamstring you. Doubt you’ll spend long off your knees from now on.”

Dean manages to bring his head forward fast enough to smash into Barlett’s, a futile resistance, and only momentarily satisfying as his assailant rears back and slams his head back against the bench, and then snarls down through blood-stained teeth, lip and nose bleeding as he climbs off of Dean.

“We’ll give you that one for free, just because I like a little spirit. Makes it so much more fun to break you. Lash the bitch’s legs to the bar, get that ass up in the air and strip him down. We’re clear until lunch, then they’re gonna let the rest of the cellblock out to play, so we’re gonna have a couple hours to get him nice and loose. Manny, you get that collar ready. I’m the only one biting this bitch.”

Dean’s legs are hauled over the bar, and they duct tape him spread wide, thighs on the outsides of his wrists, knees hooked over the bar and bare feet and busted ankle uselessly hanging, and as an afterthought one of Bartlett’s cronies slaps a line of tape over his mouth, keeping the fabric behind his teeth. The collar started life as a guard’s belt, roughly sawed short, with holes crudely punched into the leather, and Dean jerks his head trying to avoid it: the leather bites into his skin as Manny cinches it around his throat, fingers lingering like he can calm Dean, but the collar making every swallow feel tighter and he tosses his head uselessly, pushing away Manny’s false comfort. Dean’s heart is pounding in his ears, his muscles tense, and god this is happening. It can't be happening, but it is: the gate is locked, the guard walked away, and there's no Sam to help him out of this mess.

Bartlett dabs delicately at his nose as his prey is secured, and he watches impassively as Earl rips Dean’s jumpsuit open from neck to navel, buttons popping, and then tears it further, stripping it away, exposing his vulnerable ass and soft dick to the baking sun. His legs are hoisted high enough that only his shoulders touch the bench, the rest of him caught on the bar in a modified hog-tie, useless to fight. Ridiculously, fabric still hangs in tatters down his legs and wrists from the tape, leaving him feeling more exposed than if he was naked.

Bartlett smiles and straddles the bench at Dean’s ass, giving a light slap to the taut flesh. “Almost happy you turned down our initial offer to give you the dicking you needed. Been too long since I bitched an Alpha.  Punking’s too easy. You get your dick in ‘em, knock ‘em down a few pegs… but a proper _bitching._ Ain’t that simple.” Watery blue eyes look down at Dean, teeth bared in a grin. “Manuel, be a good little cocksucker and get him hard.” There's a sense of threat to the look Bartlett fixes on Manny, but his grin widens. “This is his last time using you as a cum dump; suck him dry, but don’t swallow, and don't let him knot. You're either in this all the way, or you're _out.”_

Bartlett reaches a deceptively gentle hand out to curl around Dean’s soft dick, holding him still and upright as Manny sinks slowly to his knees, takes a breath, and then flicks his tongue over the head of Dean’s dick. There’s little foreplay before Manny is taking him into the warm cave of his mouth, sucking him down like the professional slut he’s become to get by in prison. His lips brush Dean’s balls as he takes the entire length into his mouth, tongue working and teasing the soft flesh, and despite himself Dean is hardening under the assault; his dick doesn't care that he's trying to get away. He hasn't been able to cum in three days, no matter how much he jerked off, and that desperation has left him vulneable. When Bartlett trails a finger down over his balls and back, Manny takes up his hold, keeping a hand around where Dean’s knot would form, fist a vice. Bartlett smirks, poisonous words still spilling from his mouth. “That's right. Keep it tight. Pretty little bitch like him, we don't want a saggy empty knot on his useless little cock once we’re done.”

Dean grinds his teeth against the fabric, and nausea floods his mouth with saliva, the tang of cum sharp and salty on his tongue, and he can't help but swallow it down. Dean tries to shut out the sight of Earl and Trigger shucking their jumpsuits, cocks eagerly jutting his way. He can't ignore the bob of Manny’s head, the slick slide of his tongue and scorching heat of his mouth, as he ramps up Dean’s arousal, forcing his body to betray him. Manny tongues beneath his hand, teasing the sensitive flesh where his knot would form, Dean’s cock deep down his throat, and then swallows around him, and Dean’s eyes snap closed as he tries to think of something other than his former cellmate deepthroating him as his muscles tighten uselessly, unable to thrust up or run away.

“Never expected them to lock up such a pretty little slut, and the means to turn him. Hand delivered you and your closest kin, and made him stupid enough to pump a little fuckboy like Manny full of all the spunk we needed to kickstart your change. Guard tells me you _loved_ the soup last night. Licked the damn bowl clean like a dog. That was the last batch. Fingered your baby brother’s cum out of the little punk myself, scooped it in there and then jerked off in the bowl myself. There was probably more jizz than milk in that chowder, time I got through with it. Gonna be such a good little cum guzzler, aren't you.”

Every meal Manny brought him, his former cellmate had worked Sam’s semen into it, and Dean is putting all the pieces together too late. How he hasn't needed to shave. How he’s slimmed down and softened. How sensitive he’s been. How the uniforms seemed scratchy, the room too hot. They’ve fed him enough cum to prime his body for this, for the unwilling reaction overtaking him at the touch of the Alphas who’ve captured him. His rim is soft, stretching easily when Bartlett breeches him with one finger, then two almost immediately, wiggling them to prove his point with a leer.

Dean didn’t notice that his body was changing slowly on him. He thought he had a stomach bug. Everything had tasted wrong, his body rebelling, and then suddenly everything has been delicious, that final meal cementing it. God, Dean was such a fool.

“You’re half a bitch already, aren’t you?” Bartlett hooks his fingers, thrusting them hard into Dean’s prostate and forcing a whine from his throat that makes the gathered Alphas laugh, and leaves Dean desperately trying to push up the weight bar, even knowing it would only crush him. Trigger slaps his dick against Dean’s cheek, jerking off against his face and smearing the involuntary tear tracing Dean’s skin, and presses his other hand down on the bar to take away that vain hope.

Bartlett doesn't slow, finger fucking him hard as Manny deepthroats him, and as if his body was waiting for the penetration he is rocketing towards orgasm now that something is _inside_ him, toes curling, pleasure and pain indistinguishable as Bartlett wedges a third finger into Dean’s virgin hole, bringing him that much closer to the edge with a sharp stretch that Dean’s never felt before. Bartlett spreads his fingers wide, forcing Dean’s hole to open, and slaps his ass, drawing another whine from Dean. “Look like a bitch. Sound like a bitch. All you're missing is slick. Don't worry, we’ll take today to get you nice and wet and sloppy on our knots. Fuck you so full you won't even notice when it's you juicing yourself up, you’ll be pumped with so much cum you’re dripping. You’ll never take a dick dry again.”

Dean is panting through his nose, the slurp of Manny’s mouth around his cock unnaturally loud, and he scrunches his eyes shut to hide his fear. His body bucks uselessly as the combined assault rips the climax out of him, Manny squeezing the base of his cock tightly to keep him from knotting as Bartlett massages his prostate, milking him dry. Each pulse of his cock is a shock of pleasure sharper than the slow, prolonged climax of fucking his knot into someone, each taking him by surprise, skirting the fine line between pain and pleasure. He _needs,_ but without being knotted he's left unsatisfied, his body demanding _more._ He spills until Manny’s mouth is over-full, then the traitor pulls away as Bartlett keeps him dribbling, each press of his fingers into Dean’s prostate forcing out the milky white cum coating his stomach and dripping down towards his neck, with the awkward angle he’s bent. Bartlett’s words are a slap in the face, yanking Dean out of the temporary reprieve of climax.

“Spit it in his ass, Manny. Get him nice and lubed up. Doesn't work on its own, can't turn an Alpha just by fucking his own spunk into him. I tried that on the outside, on a dipshit little punk tried to steal my money. Didn't work, still had to put a gun to his daddy’s head to get him to kick it off. We still needed Dean’s baby brother to start the change, but that's still Alpha cum and his own kin, just like if his folks had turned him the old fashioned way. It’ll speed up the bitching even more. Not that he needs it. That's a natural bitch if I ever saw one.”

Dean flinches as Barlett moves off of the bench and yanks Manny into his place, and God help him the press of Manny’s lips over his abused hole makes him ooze more come, overstimulated and wrecked. Manny’s tongue invades his ass, a wet-slick-dirty slide, and he can feel when his cellmate purses his lips and forces Dean’s come into his own hole. His first load of cum deposited into his channel, and Bartlett made it his own, and the changes to come will be all the more his body betraying itself. Bartlett wedges a finger back into Dean’s hole, hooking him open to watch Manny dribble and spit the cum deep into him, and his other hand closes around Dean’s cock; he can't even seem to go soft, yet, despite the orgasm.

“Scoop it up, get the rest of it in there. Little slut isn't even turned yet, but he still slicked himself up for us like a good whore.”

Manny silently puts word to deed, scooping cum off of Dean’s abdomen and using his fingers to press it into his hole, forcing his body to accept the seed and absorb it, fingers plugging it in as he stretches Dean’s ass out for him like he can make what’s to come hurt less. As Dean’s body heat picks up, Bartlett grins down at him and pulls his finger out, patting Dean on the flank patronizingly.

“Trigger, tear some of the cloth into strips for me. I’m gonna bind him up all pretty. Earl, c’mere and take over his hole. We want him ready for our knots, so open him up wide. Manny, keep him occupied. You want a cock slobbering needy bitch when you're done, you make them beg for it when you're turning them.”

He’s teaching them, or he’s getting off on humiliating Dean. Either way, Bartlett seems to plan to narrate Dean’s degradation. As Earl takes Manny’s place on the bench and drags his hand though the cum painting Dean’s stomach, Bartlett takes the strips of white fabric and kneels beside Dean with Manny, his voice casual.

“On the outside they treat adult bitching like murder now. Slap you behind bars in this place, because to make an Alpha into a needy little bitch you gotta break them, and there’s no coming back from it. That was my specialty though. Bartlett’s Bitches. Never an unsatisfied customer, when I left them with their daddies and brothers. Never got to keep one, myself.”

Earl punches into Dean with four fingers, and the scream never makes it past the tape on Dean’s lips. Staring off, Manny smears the remaining cum painting Dean’s chest into his skin, pinching and twisting his swollen, sensitive nipples as Bartlett winds fabric around Dean’s cock, binding it tight, amusing himself as he finishes with a demure white bow at the base of his cock. Dean’s body feels like it _should_ be knotted between some Beta woman’s thighs or Omega’s channel himself right now, hard for another half hour at least, and the fabric will trap him that way like a ring, keeping his knot down, his cock hard, and binding his balls up toward his shaft. “Families change A to O right after they present if they want them to turn out alright, before the change really sets in, but this late in the game? It’s fucking cruel. A turned Alpha bitch ain't a person anymore. Not really. Just a hole. Worse than born bitches, even, ‘cause they gotta get their fix. Doing that to an Alpha, you're killing him. But some people...”

Tears track down Dean’s cheeks and his scream is a muffled cry as Earl’s fingers force Dean’s hole impossibly open, and he can feel when his thumb joins them, the widest part of his hand shoving in until Dean’s hole is hugging his thick wrist.

“Some Alphas are just asking to be fucked.” Bartlett smacks Dean’s bound cock once he’s done winding it into fabric, and the involuntary clench around Earl’s wrist as he forms a fist sends a shock of sensation through Dean’s body. God help him it’s only half pain. “Look at that. Almost as good as a knot, isn't it baby girl? How’s she feel, Earl? Nice and tight, ready to milk you, ain’t she.” As ringleader, Bartlett is riling them up, and Dean is the prize for them. Lips pulled back in a snarl, Earl punches into Dean’s ass, and he feels full and overstimulated, trying to twist away from the sensation but robbed of all leverage. “Look at her, squirming on it. She's gonna be a needy little slut for you soon, boys.”

Earl’s cock is hard against Dean’s ass, his involuntary thrust leaving a smear of precum across Dean’s taint, and Bartlett’s eyes narrow on the motion as his false grin widens. “Not quite a real knot, though, is it baby. It’s okay. We got what you need. Earl, step back. Time for me to finish this.”

The stupidest of Bartlett’s lackies, Earl is probably convinced there's some secret to what needs to happen, Bartlett the expert among them on this. It's the only reason he's not balls deep in Dean’s ass already. Still, he hesitates, flexing his wrist and forcing Dean to stretch more, knuckles pressing against his prostate and arm flexing.

Dean cries out again when Earl’s clenched fist rips it's way out of Dean’s ass, leaving him gaping, hole fluttering uselessly around nothing.

Dean’s only empty for a moment, and gasping through the pain he doesn't register the change of assailant until Bartlett’s groan fills his ear. Dean’s own cum is the only lubricant as his assailant easily guides his dick through Dean’s softened ring, filling him again in one harsh stroke that has Dean snarling, the tape across his mouth pulling at his smooth cheeks, hands scrabbling uselessly on the bar where they're taped.

He can't deny it, though; after being fisted, being fucked on a dick is undeniably a relief. He's almost grateful for that reprieve, and he slumps into the bench. That’s the first crack in Dean’s facade.

Balls flush to Dean’s ass, Bartlett groans in pleasure and slaps Dean’s face to get his attention, bent down over his prey. “Took my cock so good, Princess. You feel me in there…?” Bartlett punctuates his question with another thrust that forces Dean’s shoulders up the bench, leaves his head unsupported, his neck arched. Bartlett drags his nose over the vulnerable line of his throat, tonguing the skin to taste sweat and fear and the first sweet notes of Omega.

It _hurts._ Dean’s body feels like it's on fire, his ass feels ripped open and the thick cock in his channel seems to be carving a place for itself with every thrust, Bartlett’s heavy balls smacking against Dean’s ass. But it hurts less each moment, his body growing accustomed to it and demanding what it needs to finish the transformation.

Dean’s body is on fire, and the _only_ thing that feels good right now is Bartlett’s cock striking his prostate.

Fever spiking again, it takes a long moment for Dean to understand he’s hearing something over his own heartbeat and the slap of balls against his ass, the sound of his unmaking.

Manny is watching the windows facing the yard sadly, even as he pumps his hand over his own cock, keeping himself hard enough to be able to participate when it's demanded of him. “Little bro is watching now.”

Of course he is. Sam is uselessly battering the safety glass between the bars, unable to stop his brother’s rape, and forced to watch it. He can picture him now, craggy brow furrowed, eyes narrowed in rage--he can picture how Sam will break, how it will transform him. Even as a kid, his little brother never cried pretty.

Dean can't curl in on himself, can't hide, and he feels his body shake with every thrust. He wishes he could claim it was just the makeshift cock ring that keeps him hard, but Bartlett hits his prostate with a regularity that can't be accidental, and slaps his dick every few thrusts just to watch it bounce between them, just to call attention to how his body is already eagerly betraying him. Dean needs to come again, needs… Needs…

“Bet he wishes this was him, Deano.  Lips like yours, ass like that, he knew who the bitch was supposed to be. Two Alpha brothers, that close in age, one of you was supposed to be turned. Everyone who’s ever _met_ you both knew you were a bitch waiting for your kin to have the balls to do the deed.” Bartlett is pumping into him hard and fast, his knot forming, pressing at Dean’s hole with every thrust. “It ain’t natural. You’re made to be ass up for little bro, hanging off his knot.”

Bartlett sits up, fingers digging into Dean’s hips as he jerks Dean down onto his cock every thrust, putting how ragdoll vulnerable Dean is on display for the entire yard, but he never stops speaking, never breaks, poisonous words filling Dean’s ears. “Sammy there probably jerked his knot every day thinking about fucking and turning you. Looked at your drink and thought how easy it’d be to shoot his load into it and grease you up. How sweet it’d be to have you under him. If your daddy was a real man, he’d have done it himself, put you over the table and dicked you good the second the _real_ Alpha son presented, so you could be the sweet little Omega homemaker and family Hole. It's all you’re good for. All you've _ever_ been good for. Bet you've thought about it too, huh. You imagine it? Probably would have been a sweet little piece of tail if they'd turned you out right when you were younger, grabbed ankle for them every time they asked. You wouldn't have let your brother be turned, you'd have gone ass-up yourself and _begged_.”

Trigger and Earl are jerking off, naked as a jay birds, but Dean can't focus on them. Can't focus on anything. Twisting his head, he tries to find his brother in the window, tries to will him to turn away. Bartlett’s hand clamps around his jaw, keeping Dean looking his brother’s direction, and leans down to whisper his last words, voice sex-rough and hoarse.

“Yeah, you watch him as you turn. He knew what you are, little whore. Got off to the stench of you every fucking day you were in lockup, reamed Manny good just from the smell of his cum turning you. Think he can smell you now, from there? I bet he's hard right now, watching you get put in your place. If he’d just done his job a decade ago your sweet little ass would be just for him. Probably woulda been too busy fucking his pretty little precious mate to get himself thrown in prison. But he didn't. Instead you're _ours_ now. Nobody’s mate, just everybody’s bitch. Don't worry, I’ll let Sammy know how sweet you gave it up for us. Let him hear all these pretty little sounds you make. I’ll thank him for the help, too, maybe give him a taste if you're a good girl.”

There’s no more pain. Dean wishes there was. He can feel how open he is, how his hole seems to suck Bartlett in, and the grinding thrust of Bartlett’s half-formed knot into Dean’s hole has him whimpering in ways that have nothing to do with pain. “Mine now….” He thrusts again, bending over Dean, weight pressing him down. Each statement is punctuated with a thrust that shatters Dean’s thoughts, knot forcing in and out of him, stretching him wide, and his body is aching with need. If he was untied right now, he's not sure he’d be able to do anything but spread wider, thrust back into it, chase his release. “My whore. My little cock slut. _My Bitch.”_

Dean comes hard on Bartlett’s knot with his eyes locked on Sam’s panicked face and his assailant’s teeth embedded into his neck, and it’s all over from there.

He’s lost.

Cum pulses deep into Dean, changing him, breaking and reforming him on a base level. He can feel his hole milking Bartlett’s knot greedily, primed for this by weeks of cum-spiking, the channel of his ass contracting around him, and each ripple feels like another wave of orgasm, though with his balls already emptied of the last real cum he’ll ever produce, only clear preejaculate beads his own jerking cock where it still is pressed between them, soaking into the fabric around his dick and balls.

Bartlett swipes his tongue up the claiming mark on Dean’s neck as he rises, blood once again on his teeth, and glances to the window as he sits back to show to their captive audience Dean’s hole tight around his knot. “Perfect. That's right. You feel that?” Bartlett presses in harder, cock spurting more cum deep into Dean’s ass, soothing after the abuse. He thought that cum-hungry bit was a lie, a story told to make bitches… _Omegas…_ Seem like sex toys come to life. Right now, each load of cum is like a drug, the cock pumping into him the only relief from the fever. “Gonna get that all up in you, feed that hungry little hole. Feed the other one, too. Time for a demonstration, don't you think?”

The hand around Dean’s neck, pressing against the bite, takes all the fight out of him, instinctively forces him to submission to the Alpha. _His_ Alpha. Even as his mind races, Dean’s muscles all go slack, save the slow tensing pulse of his ass around the knot inside him. His mind is free, but his body is no longer his own.

He feels drunk, dizzy, feverish, and right now the slow grind against his prostate is keeping him from focusing, the soothing pump of warmth churning deep in his gut sedates him. “Trigger, take out the gag, you’re gonna fuck her face. Today, nobody comes outside of our little slut. Earl, you get next ride on her ass. You opened her up wide enough, I’m gonna pull my knot right out soon as she’s got this first full load in her. Bitch will have to get used to a quick dicking, learn to beg for us to keep a knot in her.”

Bartlett grinds in deeper, fucking more come into his new whore, and making a show out of it, leaning back so everyone in the yard, everyone with a view out the windows, can see Dean’s legs spread open on the bar and his ass clenched tight around the knot that tugs at his rim. He pulls as far back as he can without yanking the knot out, showing how Dean’s rim stays hugged around him, then fucks it hard back into his body to make Dean’s pretty lashes flutter, showing off his bitch. Dean knows they're the best show in the prison, and everyone with a window is watching it. Bartlett knows exactly when he realizes it.

“That's right. You thought you were top dog when you threw your little tantrum in the showers, huh, but now everyone can see what you really are. Everyone in this joint is watching. Jerking off watching you pant for a dick up your ass. Lucky for them, soon as it's time to come to the yard, _everybody_ gets one free ride. Except baby brother. He can beat off at his window watching you become the perfect little bitch all day. Now...”

Tape tears off of Dean’s mouth, shocking him out of his fevered stupor, and he gasps at the pain before his mouth is forced wide, fingers pressing hard into his jaw. As soon as Trigger tugs the gag past his lips, Dean spits in Bartlett’s face as best he’s able, a feeble rebellion that makes Bartlett smile. “There you are, Deano. Thought we’d lost you already. I wanted you to still have a little spunk to you…” Bartlett fucks his knot deeper into Dean’s hole just for the sick pun, flashing his teeth in a mocking grin at the moan it tears out of Dean unbidden “...when I show you our next trick. You ready for it…?”

Leaning back in, Bartlett wraps a hand around Dean’s neck, clamping down on the fresh claiming mark and forcing eye contact. Against his will, Dean’s body goes lax again at the show of dominance, forced to submit, and Bartlett sneers at the obvious victory before he even gives the command, Alpha red bleeding into his eyes, Alpha Voice making him rumble. The words brand themselves into Dean’s unconscious, a firm command that his body cannot ignore, no matter how much his mind rebels.

“ _You're going to suck everything put in your mouth and swallow anything you're given, until your Alpha tells you that you're done._ Do you understand me, Omega?”

“Go. Fuck. Yourself.” It's a struggle to make himself growl the words out, and already he can _feel_ that the threatening, commanding Alpha voice he once had won't come to him. Trying is a useless battle that goes right out of him as Bartlett presses harder, and smirks, eyes scarlet and fixed on Dean.

“Tough talk, Princess, but you and I both know you're gonna follow the command. Now, _Omega,_ say ‘yes Alpha’ and then open that pretty mouth and leave it that way. _Now_.”

“Yes, Alpha.” Dean can taste bile, head swimming as he can't fight the command. Even before the body finishes changing, his mind has broken, made him submit. It's hardwired in, the first thing to flip, to keep the Omegas docile as they're turned. He _can't_ fight his Alpha on a direct command.

Trigger grabs his head and tugs him up the bench, head tipped over the top, mouth open, and Dean begins suckling at the cock fed into his mouth because he _has to_ , because the words have imprinted themselves on his instincts.

“Fuck his face.”

The first thrust down his throat leaves Dean choking, trying to gasp in breath, eyes stinging with tears as he tosses his head and tries ineffectively to pull away: made useless by Bartlett’s hand clamping around his throat, by his mouth staying open wide by his Alpha’s command. The squeeze of a hand against his neck makes the cock in his throat feel even larger, and Dean can’t, he can’t…

“That's it, bitch. Choke on that cock. Keep fucking his throat. He's gonna have to get used to that quick.”

“Mouth like his, you could make a lot of money.” It's the first time he’s heard Earl speak, but it's fading under the ringing of his ears, the creeping blackness as fever and airloss steal over him. Even as he begins to slip, his throat works, tongue pressing, and he sucks, mouth open to the assault.

He is, as Bartlett said, nothing more than a hole now.

He loses time, loses self, in a haze somewhere between conscious and not, aware of when the knot is yanked out of his ass well enough to whine at the pain and emptiness, and register when bodies move and a new cock fills him, fucking right into the wet mess Bartlett made of his ass, mercilessly riding him now that their pre-show is over, each thrust forcing the cock in his mouth down his throat. His jaw aches when a knot locks behind his teeth. He can either swallow or drown in the cum that floods his mouth and throat, but the choice was already demanded of him. He swallows repeatedly, convulsively, to the sound of his assailant’s laughter, distant and far away now as the cramping in his stomach eases with each swallow, soothed away like a drug, and he can’t feel any of the bruises, his ankle, his abraided wrists.

The knot yanks out of The Omega’s ass, leaving him gaping and unsatisfied, and Bartlett takes his place again at his ass, pushing his cock in, knot still half swollen from their first round and from jerking off, staying in just long enough to dump another load into him, laughing as he presses down on The Omega’s belly.  Awkwardly hoisted as he is, ass elevated, little is escaping: he can feel the semen squelch inside of him, but it's all that's keeping the pain at bay.

Manny is next at his mouth when the knot there goes down, yanked into place by Bartlett’s hands against his hips, using Manny as a tool to fuck The Omega’s mouth. It's over almost as quickly as it starts, and half of Manny’s cum ends up spurting across his face, hot splashes of semen painting his skin. Bartlett is still laughing as he drags his fingers through the mess and feeds it into The Omega’s mouth, the slack part of his lips tightening as he sucks on the digits pressed to his tongue.

They take turns, shoving fingers and fists into him while waiting to get it up again, and The Omega blanks out, lost to events and focused on the sensation and the fever consuming him. He knows when the last knot at his ass pulls out almost as soon as it inflates, a sharp pain made even sharper by the lack of an immediate replacement. The Omega whines softly.

“Shit, man. The _smell_ of him...” Manny is staring down at him in something like shock, as he twists as best he’s able, abrading his knees and wrists where they're bound. He can't be still. Can't. He needs…

“Now _that_ is the smell of a ripe Omega. All he needed was that last little push, put him in the bitching heat. They can't help it; that first Heat they go outta their head, will beg to be dicked. Nature’s way of retraining them outta thinking of their daddies and brothers as family and start seeing them as Alpha.” Bartlett rises to his feet and takes his soft cock and feeds it into The Omega’s mouth, where he sucks it like he's desperate for Bartlett to get hard again despite knotting him twice. He can hear the words, but he isn't registering their meaning. Nothing takes its place at his ass, and he's so _empty_. He suckles the cock in his mouth, the only point of contact given to him. “This is my favorite part. By the time they hit the yard, my little bitch will beg them for a cock.” Bartlett draws his cock out, smacking The Omega’s face a few times, trying to get his eyes to focus, and Dean blinks slowly, eyelashes wet and spikey with Manny’s cum and Dean’s tears, open mouth panting. “I think I’ll call you that now on. You gonna answer to Bitch, bitch?”

The world is coming into focus again slowly, reluctantly, but it's tilted on its axis. Dean can _think_. But he still _needs._

There’s a rumbling in the distance, and Dean can’t place it.

 _“_ Any minute now. Go ahead and pull him down.” Bartlett looks to the side, watching the windows with a smirk as his lackies do his bidding, and Dean remembers that _Sam_ is there somewhere. Sam watched _all_ of that, and Bartlett is _mocking_ his brother through the glass.

Dean tenses as his hands are free, lashing out as soon as he's able. Bartlett laughs again, tucking himself back into his jumpsuit and buttoning it, unconcerned as the rest of them are as they step back, letting Dean swing out ineffectively, tipping off of the bench, his body wracked with pain and need.

“Rip your fucking throat out…”

“Is that what you think is gonna happen here, Bitch?” Bartlett drops to a crouch, just out of reach, and watches Dean struggle to sit up. His body doesn't just ache, it _burns:_ he's empty, and he needs so badly. He can feel cum leak from his abused hole, just a trickle out of all pumped into him, sliding down the crease of his ass, and it gives him focus. This psycho needs to _die._ Bartlett sneers, rising as Dean finally does. He has spent his entire life fighting against the monsters, and the punch he throws _should_ connect, but he can't quite keep himself on his feet, legs shaking, body tremoring, fever wracking him in pains, ankle buckling under his weight, and Bartlett’s hand seems viper-fast in comparison as he snatches Dean’s collar, jerking it forward. Dean’s body goes reflexively limp again as he off-balances, forced by new instincts to comply. “Nuh-uh-uh, Princess. That's not how a good bitch behaves. I think it's time for some obedience training.”

Dean catches himself on his hands, knees hitting the dusty ground, but Bartlett keeps the collar tight, yanking him forward. He can hear the rumbling resolve itself into voices, into footsteps. Panic sets in as the gate between the rec yard and the prison opens with a shriek of metal on metal.

“ _Crawl_.” His body jerks, and his mind rails, but he moves in response to the command growled at him, Bartlett’s impassive eyes on him Alpha red as he drags Dean to the bench again and he turns him away from the gate at the foot of the bench, away from the prison full of Alphas spilling into the yard, the scent of their arousal overpowering and enticing now. “ _Present.”_

Dean’s hole twitches, his stomach cramping, and God help him he can feel another trickle of cum leak from his ass, as on hands and knees he lowers his shoulders to the ground by Bartlett’s feet, spreads his knees, and hikes his ass into the air, face burning in humiliation and mind screaming it's impotent fury as he offers his ass to the view of an entire prison yard full of Alphas. His thighs are wet and shiny with cum, or with slick; true to Barlett’s word, he can't tell.

“ _Reach back and spread your cheeks_ , _Bitch_ , show them how much you want this.” His forehead against the packed dirt of the rec yard, Dean reaches helplessly behind himself. The bound cock between his legs is still hard, jerking against the soiled ribbon of torn fabric as he uses both hands to fully expose his swollen hole to an audience that whoops and jeers at how wet he is, how open, how his hard dick gives away how much his body craves this. Dean wishes he could blame the command for it, but in all of this his cock has never softened, tender and swollen by hours of arousal. He can feel his hole tighten around nothing, _empty,_ as Bartlett laughs. Dean hates that laugh.

“That’s a good Bitch. Now, _stay_. I have to talk to our friends a little.”

Bartlett walks to stand beside him, hand resting on Dean’s ass possessively, and Dean twitches, muscles bunching,  but he can’t _move_. As surely as if he’d been bound, he’s stuck there because his _Alpha_ commanded it.

“Boys, I think you all know my Bitch here. She gave some of you a hard time a couple weeks back. Thought she was too good for us. So I loosened her up a bit.” Bartlett smacks his palm against Dean’s exposed hole, spanking right over it once as Dean spreads himself open for it, and Dean barely manages to hold back a gasp as his hole clenches, slick or cum dribbling out of him in a gush. He can hear the crowd react, but the sound fades some as his attention fixates on Bartlett sliding two fingers into his hole, and it soothes some of the ache he’s had since the last knot. Bartlett isn’t even fingering him properly, just showing off how open he is, how his hole tightens around the intrusion, how his body quakes with it, fingers tightening to press into the muscles of his ass, keeping him open.

“She’s _mine_ now. Too far gone to turn back, and I’ve marked her up. Killing me will probably kill our little toy here too, now, so don’t get any ideas.” The fingers move, thrusting into The Omega’s ass slowly, a tease that makes him need _more_. Dean tries to toss his head, throw off the mindset sinking over him, but fingers press against his prostate, his bound dick jerks uselessly, and it’s so hard to _think._ He can feel himself slipping, feel himself breaking, tumbling, and he has no control over rocking his hips now, fucking himself on Bartlett’s hand in front of everyone, their laughter at each desperate jerk of his hips shredding his self-image. He can't even tell anymore, too gone, to notice when Alpha is using the voice--when words sink in deep. “ _This bitch wants it bad._ Keeps up pretending she's a real Alpha, but all I see’s an eager little whore who’s damn near squirting just at a little warm up fingering. . . Don’t worry, I’ll share her. We can talk payment if you want her again later--this time, I think she needs to be reminded of her place, don’t you?”

Barlett’s fingers slide out of The Omega’s hole, another wave of slick pulsing out with them, and Dean growls softly into the packed dirt. A hand grabs Dean’s collar, yanking his head up from the ground, and Barlett meets his stare, a sick smirk twisting his lips--the eyes staring up at him are brilliant gold, not a trace of green left, though Dean bares his teeth in a snarl. “You’re turning, Dean. Already more Bitch than man. Little brother got you started, but without him here to knot you, you’re gonna need a lot to finish it. _You need their cum_ , _you need their knots_ , to finish becoming what you really are.”

The words are barbed hooks that shred Dean’s consciousness, the Alpha growl superceding all Dean’s own thoughts, and Dean… _the Omega..._ flinches as the _need_ ramps up, encouraged by Bartlett’s words. The grip on The Omega’s collar slips, but he stays put, locked onto Bartlett’s stare. He can hear the crowd behind him, the movement, the people listening and laughing, but two fingers slide into his parted lips and The Omega sucks them in, mouth wet and hot around them, compelled by another order. He has to. He _wants_ to. Alpha never commanded he was done sucking what was given to him. He can taste the cum from his ass on them, and Omega slick as sweet as honey, and he sucks on them until all he can taste is salt and skin, and regrets the loss.

“You don’t get dicked enough today and the fever’ll take you. So way it see it, you owe them some gratitude. When they use you like the little cum bucket you are, now, you are _going to_ _say ‘thank you, Alpha.’_ You’re gonna _thank_ _every Alpha who fucks you like the whore you are, every time._ Aren’t you, Bitch? Nod if you understand. _”_

Bitch nods slowly, tongue laving between Bartlett’s fingers as he does, gold eyes fixed on red, and Alpha laughs, pulling his fingers out and stepping back, ignoring Bitch’s whine.

“Good. Then _present_. And remember, _be a good Bitch_. _Say ‘please, Alpha…_ ’”

Bitch hastens to obey, ass hiked in the air again, mind fuzzy but body on fire, the scent of slick and Omega heat unable to drown out the allure of the unknown number of Alphas fighting for their place in line.

His hole clenches around nothing, pink furrowed flesh tight and wet, body beading with sweat, and he _needs_.

“Please. Please Alphas…”

With another slap of his ass, Bartlett takes a seat on the bench in front of him, foot to the back of Bitch’s neck to keep him relaxed and presented, and Alpha gestures magnanimously at his fellow inmates.

“She’s all yours, boys. Break this bitch in.”


	3. Bitch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: Beginning last chapter, you see Dean disassociating given what is being done to him (the narrative illustrates that by differentiating between "Dean," "Omega"/ultimately "Bitch" perspectives). That continues within this chapter, to an extreme degree. 
> 
> The Dean we know and love is still very much alive, but he's checked out to protect himself from what occurred last chapter, and what will be happening this chapter. 
> 
> This is not a chapter where things begin to turn around. In fact, it gets worse before it gets better. Hang in there.

Bitch doesn’t remember being transported to the medical center. Mind fever-addled, he stares up at a water stain on the ceiling tiles above him as gentle hands drag a blessedly cold wet cloth over his skin, cleaning away the crust of dried semen and salt of urine from his body. The motion is a comfort, but the slow loss of Alpha’s scent makes him whine, low and needy. A woman’s voice soothes him, but it’s all wrong. Her scent is wrong. Beta. Doesn’t have what Bitch needs.

“...Been brutalized for an entire eight-hour shift. How could the guards let this happen? He’s burning up with fever now, and…”

Bitch closes his eyes again, pressing his feet against the stirrups and flexing his legs, testing if he can move. They’re strapped open, hiked up, his wrecked hole exposed to the cold air, cock freed from its bindings, and the sear of pain from his damaged ankle reminds him that he hurt it somehow. It doesn’t matter. The other scent here is an Alpha. Not Bitch’s Alpha, but _an_ Alpha. How he’s positioned isn’t much different than how he was tied up before. Bitch scoots down, ass to the edge of the examination table beneath him as best he can with arms and legs strapped into place, and whines his need.

Conversation stops, but the hand that touches him is wrong again. Woman. Beta. Can’t help. She presses the back of her hand to his forehead, and he tunes her out, only listening again when the alpha speaks, and he presses his feet to the stirrups again, raising his ass off of the table the bare inch he can, offering it silently. The gesture is ignored, but by the arousal scent he picks up, not unseen.

“...have done is irreversible already. He can either be a dead half-turned Alpha, or living Omega. If he dies, we’re held liable.”

“Doctor, it’s barbaric. If we do this, we’re no better than…”

“Than letting him die? The conflicting hormones are killing him. If we dock him, he’ll survive, we keep him on the books, and the State won’t know or care. He’s in for life without possibility of parole, his brother had to be part of making _this_ happen, and no one else is going to miss him out there. If we don’t do this, he’ll die, and there will be hell to pay with the DoJ. We already lost one prisoner this month, and had a riot that injured a guard, and _he’s_ why. We can't undo what's done to him. But it he dies, there will be an investigation.”

A hand rests on Bitch’s upraised knee, masculine fingers brushing his thigh, and he tries to raise his hips higher to the Alpha. He _needs_. Tears spill down his cheeks, and Bitch opens golden eyes again to seek out the unknown Alpha and keens. Fingers press into the muscle, a warning or a promise, and Bitch stills again, staring at the Alpha between his legs.

“He’s dying. I’ll do the procedure. You call the women’s prison, get a full Omega kit. He’s going to need a knotted plug for daily wear as well, or risk prolapse. We’ll also want to do a full STD regimine, and keep it up with weekly treatment. I’ll dock him, and I’ll perform an early tubal ligation so that we don’t end up with any unexpected pregnancies in the future. I can handle the procedure so that you have deniability. You get everything in motion, pick up the kit, and let the Warden know we need to move him back out of solitary--Omegas need comfort contact. I suggest we pair him with the Alpha who brought him in, he seemed to trust him.”

Beta Woman’s hand leaves Bitch’s skin, her words a buzz, and Bitch watches the Alpha step away as the door swings shut behind her, watches him flip the lock and turn back to Bitch, eyes bleeding scarlet. Bitch breathes in the scent of his arousal, hole clenching needily around nothing, and swallows, tongue desperately trying to wet his mouth, battered fucked-out throat croaking out the words.

He has to be a _Good Bitch._ Bitch’s Alpha told him how to be good: he has to _ask_ now.

 _“Please_ Alpha.”

Alpha’s belt clatters as it hits the tile, his slacks a hush of fabric as he steps out of them. There’s a rip of foil, and _finally,_ pressure as the Alpha steps between Bitch’s stirruped legs and fucks into his sloppy, aching hole. No, his _cunt_. Bitch’s Alpha called it his cunt.

“ _Thank you,_ Alpha. Thank you, thank…”

The Alpha, _Doctor,_ fucks jackrabbit fast, hard punches that leave Bitch gasping out little cries of thanks and need until fingers shove into his open mouth. Bitch likes that better, and he sucks eagerly. He’s said thank you like a good Bitch, and now he’s not supposed to have any empty holes. Alpha told him that when he split the line in two, half to wait for a turn at his cunt, half to fuck his face from the bench.

“Bartlett was right, you make such a perfect needy little bitch, don’t you.” Doctor growls, and Bitch mentally preens at the compliment, trying to show his appreciation by clenching down on the length fucking his cunt, toes curling, soaked enough with slick that every thrust squelches wetly. He _needs_ and Alpha can give it to him. When his knot inflates, shoving into Bitch’s hole, his body locks up around it, muscles rippling, and though Doctor groans his satisfaction, the hit Bitch need never comes. He whines wetly, clenching harder, rocking his hips as best he can, begging silently with his whole body as he sucks the fingers in his mouth, but even with pressure against his prostate making his cock dribble, he’s left unsatisfied. The fingers slide out of his mouth, knot lodged into his  cunt, and he’s begging already. “Please, please, Alpha. _Please._ I need…”

“You _need_ to shut your useless whore mouth. That guard you put in the hospital? He’s a friend of mine. I’ll tell him about this when he’s back, let him come take his turn with you here for our weekly ‘appointments.’” Doctor Alpha slaps Bitch’s hard cock sharply, and then again, and again, stinging blows that confuses his body as Doctor Alpha grinds his knot deeper into Bitch’s cunt. Cunt good, cock bad. Some lessons take quickly, and Bitch whines, trying to pull away but unable, held down by straps and anchored on the knot that should be helping him as hits rain down on his cock. For the first time since Alpha claimed him, he’s going soft.

“And you think I’m going to go bare into your dirty whorehole? An entire cellblock just ran a train on your ass, and you begged them for it.” The hand slapping him stops, but the relief is momentary; a vicegrip takes hold of Bitch’s sore, bruised balls, yanking them tightly up, past his cock, testes squeezed tight in Doctor’s fist and skin pulled taut. Bitch opens his mouth to scream and finds fingers back against his tongue. He pants through his nose as he sucks, still bound by command, golden eyes wide and terrified. Doctor Alpha tugs again, and Bitch whines and thrashes as little as he’s able.

“I’m taking these. You’re lucky Bartlett wants to watch your cock shrink to a useless little Omega prick, or I’d be taking it, too. I’d wager based on the videos that you already lost an inch just since treatment started, since you started drinking cum and hormone treatment. You’re not a man anymore… went ass-up for a hundred real Alphas, and you’re gonna do it every day for the rest of your worthless life. Only fair you look the part.”

The hand around his balls drops, and Bitch breathes out a shuddering sob, his sweat-soaked hair gently petted as he suckles on the three fingers holding his tongue down, a whiplash of sensations from the lingering pain of his balls and cramping of his stomach.

“I want you to remember this, whore. If you so much as claim a hangnail and end up in my medical center without me sending for you, or if you tell anyone about me or give them any reason to suspect me, I am going to make you regret it. Your ass may be Bartlett’s, but your limp little bitch clit, you only keep because I let you.”

Bitch flinches as the knot yanks out of his hole, too used to the sensation now to cry out, but tears prick his eyes at being left unsatisfied. He watches as Doctor Alpha steps to his side, free hand moving to the condom that sits heavy, a full load of cum dumped into the thin barrier. The Omega can _smell_ it, and it makes him salivate, sucking wetly, eagerly, reflexively on the fingers as he stares.

Doctor Alpha’s laugh makes him shudder. Too many laughs. Too many…

“You’re literally drooling and panting for it, you little bitch. You’d suck this right out of the condom if I let you. I’ll give Bartlett this, he knows a gold medal cockslut when he sees one. Too bad for you, you can’t have this.” Doctor Alpha steps away completely, leaving Bitch’s mouth empty, and he sobs as Doctor ties off the condom and drops it in the trash, covering over it with papers as he tucks himself back into his pants, then goes to his desk to retrieve a box from the drawer.

“Please. Please. I need…” The round rubber ball shoved into Bitch’s mouth stretches his lips as much as the knots outside had, and he whines through his nose, unable to mouth on it well with his tongue trapped down and nothing in his throat to suck, manhandled as the strap is buckled behind his head.

“I wasn’t lying to the nurse, you know. You do need to be fixed. You’re nobody’s _mate_ , nobody would want pups with a used up little prison slut. You’re just a hole. And the best hole is a _needy_ hole, don’t you think? It’s why Bartlett came to me for pills in the first place, and why he sent you to me now. So I’m going to fix you up _here_ first…” The jab of a needle deep into Bitch’s balls has him screaming as best he can around the gag, the slap of a hand against his cock and balls leaving him gasping, snot and tears soaking his face, until the sensation fades but the sound continues. Doctor Alpha nods in satisfaction when he stops flinching, still sobbing, and reaches for a bottle in the box, tugging on a plastic glove before squirting a lotion into his palm, slathering it over Dean’s numbed balls and along his taint. “Then I’m going to do a little procedure to make sure you never take a litter no matter how much time you spend hanging off a knot, so we don’t end up with anyone sniffing around asking questions. Your weekly injections will be a full STD panel, just like I said, and a little something extra. This bitching heat isn't gonna taper off in a few days like it would on the outside, Dean. No, you're gonna stay a drugged out little whore panting for a cock all the time. The only way it stops is if you get knocked up. Which I’m about to make sure never happens without me surgically _making_ it happen. But first...”

Doctor Alpha tugs off his glove and reaches into the box again, and draws out a clear plastic contraption, a small curved tube open at one end and slotted at the other, and Bitch watches as his limp dick is shoved into the tube, with the shot unable to feel the squeeze as it’s latched around the base his cock where the loose skin once waited for him to knot, and locked into place with a tiny padlock. Doctor shows him the key, then pockets it. “It’s a little tight right now, but once we get rid of these, you’ll come right down to size. Promised you this little prick is mine. Your ‘Alpha’ may be the one that knew how to get you here, but Bartlett owes me for getting the drugs for him, and for the surgery. Something tells me your Alpha won’t care. Even if you can get it up when we’re all done, your little prick is worthless now. A good bitch should come on a knot alone.”

Yes, he can be a good Bitch. He can. He was told to be a Good Bitch, told to wait and do what Doctor said, and he can. The doctor steps out of his sight, and a moment later the table lurches, gears within grinding as Doctor presses a button to tilt it back, and Bitch feels off-balanced, out of sorts. Doctor could have told him to present, instead, but his ass is hiked up with him on his back but without the bar to hold his weight like Before, leaving him feeling as if he’s going to slide off of the table onto his head, fists clenching in the restraints.

Instead of the Alpha’s dick, he feels something rubber feed into his open hole, not much bigger than two fingers, but he reflexively clenches around it. Not _enough_. He’s not ready for the shock of _cold_ to follow, and his stomach cramps almost immediately as ice-cold liquid rushes into him, a sharp chemical scent filling the air. It _hurts_ , and while Doctor refusing to empty his load into his cunt was unsatisfying, this wrenches him right back to the _need_.

He’s never felt so empty while so full, even for all those hours in the Yard. His ass stays clenched around the hose fed into it, cunt milking the only thing filling it, and he couldn’t push it out if he wanted to, even with it considerably smaller than the knots he craves.

Ignoring the whining and writhing of the Omega, Doctor swipes his balls and taint with the wet rag, cleaning off the lotion and body hair along with it, lifting his caged cock out of the way when he has to. He’s left hairless and smooth, air cold against his skin where he can still feel it, all while his guts are flooded, chasing away all of the comfort of the Alpha cum. “Better. You’ve stopped growing it, but better we clean you up outside as well as in. It’ll help with the next part.”

Bitch’s belly begins to stretch in a sick mimicry of pregnancy as Doctor continues to ignore him apart from a sharp slap of his inner thigh and warning Alpha growl to force Bitch to stillness as he carefully draws a dotted line down the center of his balls. Something like panic is starting to set in, some part of Bitch that’s carefully been locked away to keep himself safe is terrified of what’s happening here. The _pain_ wracking his body again as the cum is stolen from him is making it hard to focus, hard to _think,_ but that deep down, forgotten part of Bitch that still has words past _Please, Thank You, Alpha,_ and _I need_ is screaming in horrified disbelief and spitting profanities and threats in Bitch’s mind as Doctor pulls over a wheeled table, a surgical tray on top.

Bitch just whimpers.

“I hope that means you’re catching on. I’d let you watch the show, but…” Doctor slaps a hand against Bitch’s swollen belly, making the freezing liquid within slosh, and it _hurts_. “Doubt you can even see your limp little prick over this. You hold that all in. If you void that while I’m cutting, you’re going to end up infected, or my knife is going to _slip_ and take everything, down to the root. But I want you awake for this. Bartlett, your _Alpha_ wanted you awake for it too, wants you to remember every time you look at yourself in the mirror that you aren’t Alpha anymore. You’re this prison’s bitch. And everyone to see you is gonna know it. No coming back from this.”

_To make an Alpha into a needy little bitch you gotta break them, and there’s no coming back from it._

Bitch shivers at half-remembered words, and flinches as Doctor focuses between his legs, ass tight around the hose, unable to relax the muscles of his reflexively milking cunt, even with the reward just more cold, drug-laced water. He can't feel the pain in that area, but he can feel the movement, and the _Before Bitch_ voice is screaming, cursing, railing at Bitch to move, to try and fight. His mind falls eerily silent again when there’s pressure then a _yank_ that Bitch can feel up to his swollen belly button, and Doctor’s gloved, bloody hand drops something into a bowl on the tray.

With the _before_ voice going silent, Bitch’s thoughts go fuzzy, again, and he curls up in that blissful unawareness, lets the fever take him and leave him just a sucking mouth and a needy cunt, without thought or body.

He barely registers the passing of time, the Doctor’s actions between his legs, the _emptiness_ of being forced to push out all of the cold from his belly and the pinch of metal spreading his hole open impossibly wide so Doctor can see to scrape away within him. The return of Beta Woman afterwards is accompanied by a rubber cock tucked snugly into his cunt, a false knot that no matter how much his ass works it will never give him what he _needs_. She tuts over the thick swaddling of bandages over Bitch’s groin, but can't see the cock cage tucked beneath it. She administers the medications the doctor gives her, without knowing how it sets Bitch on fire, cunt soaking with slick as it desperately tries to milk the rubber knot.

He's moved into a wheelchair, Doctor brings him back to the cellblock, and awareness begins to creep in again. The guards exchange a few words, and then he's stripped, medical gown pulled away and the swaddling ripped off. Bitch whimpers at the laughter, at his legs being parted and limp caged dick being nudged aside so they can all see the pulled taut skin where his balls used to hang, the march of stitches down his skin, the way he still grinds his ass back into the plug holding him open.

Two beta guards and an Alpha. Bitch’s eyes stay locked on the Alpha, pleading, but it's a Beta who wheels him past the cellblock. Alphas are everywhere, voices calling out from cells, catcalling suggestions that he’d love to take, greeting him by name ( _Bitch,_ always Bitch, forever Bitch now), laughter at Bitch’s limp dick and missing balls that fill him with shame, and promises to stuff him full again that drive him deeper into the fever. He can smell their arousal, and his mouth waters.

Somewhere, in the floor below, someone is desperately yelling out a name that seems familiar, seems from _Before_ , but Bitch’s Alpha is smirking in front of him now, the cell door between them rattling open, and nothing else matters.

“There's my Bitch.” Alpha’s hand wraps around his throat and he slumps from the chair to his knees, golden eyes watching his owner from beneath dark lashes, mouth flooded with saliva, body rocking to try and fuck himself on the fake knot inside him. The chair is taken away, the door closes again, and Alpha watches Bitch squirm trying to satisfy himself and unable to. “Did you miss me, Princess? I can smell how much you missed me. Now, stand up, turn around, grab the bars, and let me have a look at you.”

Alpha’s voice doesn't rumble, there’s no bite of command, but Bitch moves eagerly to obey, hands grabbing the rail as he thrusts his ass out towards his Alpha, voicing his need. “ _Please_.”

The hand smacking the base of his plug makes Bitch gasp, pressing his forehead to the bars, and he can smell the hundreds of Alpha’s jerking off to the scent of Omega in full heat, to the sound of his need. “You’ll take whatever I let you have, and you’ll be grateful for it, you little slut. Right now, I want to have a look at you, just like this, turned into my perfect little bitch.”

Fingers slide down Bitch’s crack, over the plug, following the smooth line of him from taint to encased cock, along stitches that are still sore and fresh but healing rapidly. “You may be my best work ever, Princess. But I think you deserve most of the credit. Told you that you were a natural.”

Alpha’s hand grabs the nub-like handle at the base of the plug that gives Bitch something to grind against when he’s seated, sliding it out enough to see the slick soaking him, enough for Bitch to arch his back and whine, and then fucks the rubber cock back into him. It doesn't _help._

“You let Doc clean out all our hard work, didn't you.” Alpha sounds like Bitch failed him by losing it all, and he sags into the bars at Alpha’s disapproval through the next few thrusts of the plug. “Gonna have to start all over again tomorrow. Ask me pretty, and I’ll take care of you for tonight.”

“ _Please,_ Alpha. Please, please…”

A hand knots into Bitch’s hair, dragging his head up, and Bitch goes limp and unresisting. “Not good enough. Please what? What does a Bitch need?”

“Please, need. I need… I…” Alpha fucks the rubber cock back into him, and Bitch gasps. He's lost so many words, but this one he can remember. “ _Knot._ Bitch needs a knot. _Please.”_

 _“_ Greedy little slut, you _have_ a knot.” Alpha twists the cock in him, rubbing against his prostate, false knot tugging hard against his rim, and Bitch sobs in his need. “Doc gave you a knot too, didn’t he, but it didn’t help.” The _Other_ voice asks how he knows what Doctor Alpha did, but Bitch is too far gone to care, to listen. Alpha is right. He needs more than just a knot. “What do bitches like you _really_ need, and where do you need it. Think hard. I’m not giving it to you until you ask nicely.”

“Please. I need…” The fake cock thrusts back into him, slick leaking down his thighs, and Bitch sobs. He can smell it everywhere, knows the Alphas around him are spilling it, wasting it, that the bars are keeping him from having it. _Alpha_ can give him what he needs, though. “... _Cum!_ Bitches need cum! Please, Alpha!”

“Where do Bitches need cum? _Answer me_.” The fake cock is yanked out, tossed aside into the cell, and Bitch clenches over nothing, crying as his face is ground into the bars by the hand against the back of his neck. The voice of the _before_ him is screaming at him to _fucking fight back_ , but the growled command compels him to yell out loud enough for the entire cellblock as he begs, voice carrying.

“ _Cunt!_ Please, please, come in Bitch’s cunt, Alpha! Come in Bitch’s mouth. Bitches need cum. Please, I _need_ …”

His words end in a garbled moan, and the _Other_ voice is abruptly silenced. Alpha thrusts into him hard, taking his hips and tugging him so he's bent at the waist, arms wrapped low around the bars, clinging to brace himself bent with his ass in the air as Alpha growls against his cheek. “That’s right, Bitch. That's exactly right. And I’m gonna give you what you need. Now, remember your lessons: what do good bitches say.”

“ _Thank you,_ Alpha.” Bitch keens the words, and that makes Alpha laugh, makes him fuck harder, and Bitch can feel his growing knot, clamps down around it, cunt squeezing, staring sightlessly back between his legs to watch his caged cock bounce, his body rock to meet each thrust. He is desperate, drooling, begging for what he _needs_ over and over again. The pan of Alpha’s hips slaps the bare space where his balls once were, sharp pain that makes Bitch scream, but he chases the sensation anyway until his voice is ragged. Alpha is the one who can take the pain. In the building he can hear other Alphas jeering, yelling at him to take it, to beg for it, and he _does_ , again and again, sobbing in pain and need, begging _please_. The final thrust that buries Alpha’s swollen knot deep inside his cunt, that pulses his first hit of cum since it was all stolen from him, since he was drugged back into endless heat, is met with gasped thanks, over and over, as the pain begins to ebb.

Someone in the building is sobbing, apologizing to _Dean_ , but Bitch shakes his head, trying to ignore the barb of recognition that makes that voice stand out among all of the cheering and catcalls, and the next pulse of cum deep inside him lets him go lax against the bars at last and forget. Alpha doesn't pull out at all this time, for the _first_ time after so many cocks ripped out of him as soon as they were done, and he feels so full, so sated by the rightness of hanging off a knot and being pumped full, anchored by his Alpha as he's told what a Good Bitch he is, fingers tugging his swollen nipples, hand bouncing his limp caged cock, and even the insults sound like praise as Alpha croons them in his ear, as the lights overhead buzz and then snap out.

When Alpha Guard stops in front of their cell it barely takes a suggestion from Alpha for Bitch to reach between the bars and palm the hard cock in the uniform pants, to press his face to the gate, mouth open, as Alpha Guard opens his fly and feeds his cock between the bars and into Bitch’s mouth. Alpha says he owes the Guard, that he let Bitch have the playtime in the Yard, that if Bitch can get him off quickly he can have the Alpha Guard’s cum, and so Bitch sucks the cock eagerly, frustrated that with the bars in the way he can't get to the knot. Alpha finds his second wind and fucks his own knot deeper into Bitch’s cunt, Alpha Guard reaches through the bars to grab his hair and fucks his face shallowly, and Bitch moans around the length in his mouth, triumphant when it spurts cum, sucking down and swallowing what he can, and licking the rest from his lips afterwards, greedily trying to catch all of it as Alpha fucks a second load into him, keeping them knotted. The process repeats twice more, two more night shift guards that Alpha tells him to open for, and though the smell wrong, Beta, Bitch thanks them as they fuck his face, aborted thrusts between the bars on their rounds, each over too soon with barely a dribble compared to the flood of release he gets from Alphas, but his Alpha was right: it’s cum he needs. The knot is a reward.

He’s drugged by the lack of pain, floating, and he lets himself be guided by Alpha’s grip on his hips, by the weight of the knot spearing him open, to sit on Alpha’s lap at the edge of the bed. His legs are splayed open wide, thighs spread to the outside of Alpha’s legs, smooth crotch and limp dick on display for anyone to pass, and he is a sated boneless weight against Alpha’s chest. He lets himself be braced upright, back arching to press his nipples up into Alpha’s wandering hands. It feels nice when they're tugged and rolled between Alpha’s fingers, leaves his cunt pulsing want, and Alpha gives it to him, locked deep inside him and filling him up. He'd do _anything_ to get this again. He can be a good Bitch for his Alpha, for this.

Fingers trail up his chest to his neck, tracing over the edge of medical tape, and then the bandage there is ripped away, fingers pressing into the ridges of the new scar, healed to raised red ridges and shiny skin since he was claimed (only this morning, but Bitch doesn't remember _before)_.

“Need everyone to see you to know you belong to _me._ You want to belong to me, don't you, Princess?” Bitch nods lazily, too gone for words until Alpha slaps the stitches and twists his caged cock, winning out a cry of pain and finding Bitch his voice again.

“Yes! Alpha’s Bitch.”

“That's right. You're a needy little cockslut Omega Bitch, and you're lucky I’ll take care of you like you need. I’ll knot you every day just like this, keep your holes full, ask my friends to give my little bitch all the cum he needs, make sure no one hurts you without my permission.” Alpha’s knot is finally going down, but he grinds his cock into the wetness between Bitch’s thighs again, making sure he has his attention. “You want everyone to know you're mine, don't you? Don't want anyone else to try to take you away from me. Doc did, and how was that?”

Bitch whimpers at remembered agony and tosses his head, clenching around the cock inside of him, trying to keep it in.

“That's right. Doc hurt you bad. You didn't have your collar on when you went to the Doctor. If you don't have it, they're all going to hurt you. A Bitch without an Alpha, they’d chew you up and spit you out. They don't know what Bitches need the way I do.” Alpha tugs at Bitch’s nipples again, other hand sliding between his legs, fingers pushing in beside his deflating knot, grinding into his cunt, teasing and pushing against muscles still trying to squeeze, to milk. “Do you want it back? Want to be taken care of? Want to wear my collar where everyone can see, and be _Alpha’s_ Bitch?”

Bitch doesn't have many words left. He doesn't need many, though. Whimpering _please_ over and over seems to work, and Alpha slides his fingers out of Bitch, reaching under his thin prison-issued pillow to retrieve the collar. The weight around Bitch’s neck as it buckles into place, the constriction of leather against his throat, leaves his body more relaxed, pliable as he’s manhandled out of Alpha’s lap. He whines when Alpha’s spent cock slips out, but is easily guided by the collar to Present at the edge of the bed, ass hoisted high to keep the cum in, and he sighs as fingers scoop up the leaked seed and feed it back into his cunt before the rubber cock is pressed back into his empty hole, filling him up tight and keeping him from leaking any more.

“That's it. Gonna plug you up. Not as good as a real cock, but feels so much better than being empty, doesn't it.” _Empty._ Bitch whines at the remembered pain of being cleaned out. “You need cum so bad, Bitch, and I don't want you wasting it.”

Alpha stretches out on his bed, feet to either side of the Omega bitch folded in on himself still between his legs, ass hiked in the air and forehead to the mattress between his Alpha’s spread thighs. His words seem to rumble, seem to growl, sharpening Bitch’s senses and capturing his complete attention as Alpha hauls his head up by the hair, red eyes meeting gold. “ _It hurts to be empty_. You know _Bitches are holes,_ and _holes need to be filled._ I’ll let you keep that fake cock in you, plug you up to keep your slutty little hole filled. Maybe I’ll let you suck it when I’m knotting you and we don't have a playmate to stuff you. Your mouth is empty, but _you always want to be full._ Don't you, slut? _You need to be stuffed at both ends, all the time_.”

The need is so sharp Bitch is dizzy with it, Alpha’s words carving a place out in Bitch’s identity, in his consciousness, and his mouth is flooded with saliva. He _needs_. Alpha drags his head up, shoving Bitch’s face into his crotch, and Bitch sighs out in pleasure when the soft cock is fed between his lips, the taste of their mixed cum and slick welcome.

“There you go, Bitch. This is where you belong, cock in your mouth and another in your ass. You hold onto that for me like a good girl. Just keep it in your mouth, keep it warm for me.” He guides Bitch to curl his body in at his side, knees tugged to his chest, and to lay his head on his Alpha’s thigh, nose tucked against the nest of curls as he breathes in the mingled smoky musk of his Alpha, and the sugar sweet scent of his own slick. It smells like both of them, here, and his body slumps in complete relaxation.

The blanket tugged up over Alpha covers Bitch’s head while leaving his fevered body to the cool air of the cell, the black rubber of the knotted plug wedged into his cunt visible from the gate, his body vulnerable, but it's okay. He’s floating on cum and drugs and sex, suckling absently, mouth wet and eyes closing as fingers tug at his collar, keeping him loose and responsive.

“That's right. Keep that cock nice and wet and warm, and I’ll let you have it again later. You can sleep just like this until I decide you’ve earned your reward again, until I fill up your hungry cunt.”

Yes, he can be good. He can earn it. Bitch closes his eyes, letting exhaustion drag him under.

“Maybe I’ll let you do this over breakfast, be my little cock warmer all over this joint. If you're good, I’ll let you crawl under the table and suck me and my boys off.”

The words are soothing nonsense that doesn't register beyond sounds, and Bitch breathes slowly, lips wrapped around the comforting weight of the soft cock on his tongue.

“Have you bounce on my lap with your legs open wide so they can watch you take a knot and love it, see your smooth crotch and leaking cunt and locked up little Omega clit as you beg me to fuck you.”

He doesn't remember _Before._ When he’s full the _before_ voice is silent, and he doesn't care about the strangely familiar voice sobbing in the distance. There is only _Now._

 _“_ Let them jerk off in a bowl and have you lick it up on hands and knees like a real bitch: they told me you loved it, licked the bowl clean… think I want to see that.”

There is only _Alpha,_ and Alpha’s Bitch.

****

It’s still dark in the cell, but Bitch is burning up again, awake long before Alpha and squirming on the fake knot, lips wrapped around Alpha’s cock as he coaxes him to hardness. His mouth is good, he was told how his lips were made for this, and he puts them to use, sucking and licking. He’s smacked for the trouble, the hand seeming to come out of nowhere with his head under the covers.

“I told you that _I decide when you get your reward_ , you needy little slut.” Alpha growls, and Bitch flinches at the sudden fury rolling off of him. He doesn't expect it when Alpha yanks the plug out of his ass, but he _needs_ , and cants his hips up.

Instead, he's shoved off of the bed. Though he catches himself with reflexes he forgot he had, rather than tumble to the floor, Alpha snatches his collar, shoving him to his knees. His body goes limp, submitting to his Alpha’s will as he’s dragged, crawling, away from his bed and pushed down with his back to the gate, and then manhandled into Presentation, a snap of command compelling his arms behind his back, his hands spreading his ass-cheeks wide.

“I told you to keep my cock warm, not to play with it. You take what I give you, when I give it to you. Bitches don't make demands.”

Bitch is absolutely soaked with slick, so _empty_ , ready, hoping, but Alpha never steps behind him, between his ass and the gate. Forehead pressed to the floor, knees parted wide, ass hiked high into the air where Alpha put him, Bitch shudders his discomfort at being left this way, mouth unused and cunt empty, the fever of his first Omega head unending, burning through him.

A few seconds later, hot liquid splashes over his back, a steady stream of foul-smelling urine that keeps going, Alpha pissing on him until it runs down between his shoulders, soaks the hair at the nape of his neck, leaves it rolling down his sides and along his ribs. Alpha shakes the last drops off on the back of Bitch’s head where his face is pressed to the floor.

The _Other_ voice is back again, yelling where Alpha is disapprovingly silent, demanding he _fight,_ demanding he _disobey_ , where Alpha gives no choices. The voice is a ringing stream of curses and insults about what kind of man lets someone _piss_ on them without standing up for themselves, condemning him as a ‘gutless, ballsless, stupid cowardly bitch,’ and Bitch has no argument for any of that. It's what he _is._ And that _Other_ that shares his voice, that lives on in his head, _hates_ him. Hates everything about him.

Bitch can hear Alpha move away, washing his hands, then dropping back down onto the bed and pulling the cover over himself, and before Bitch can move a sharp order rings out.

 _“Don’t move, and don't make a fucking sound until I tell you otherwise,_ you stupid cunt. Greedy little bitches get punished, and this is yours. When it’s lights up, everyone is gonna walk by and see you there soaked in piss, with your leaky gaping cunt on display, gagging for a dick in your holes, and they'll know you've been a bad Bitch. If you're good today, do everything I tell you, tomorrow night I’ll let you have your fake knot back and you can try being an obedient cockwarmer instead of a useless slut. But now you keep your cunt in the air, keep your face on the goddamn ground, take your punishment and shut the fuck up, so I can sleep.”

And then there is silence.

After thirty minutes, the shivering sets in, the jailhouse air freezing against his fever-flushed skin, the acrid smell of the urine making him nauseous and blocking out everything else.

After an hour, his muscles begin to ache at the strain of keeping the position, of keeping his ass open and his hips high. He almost misses the _Other_ voice now, but he knows this isn't for _him_. Like the Yard, like when he's being used as a hole, like when the Doctor hurt him, there are things the _Other_ cannot see.

At an hour and a half, Bitch hears footsteps, the guard on his rounds. He _can’t_ disobey, can't raise his head and look as the steps slow to a stop, but the bark of laughter behind him makes Bitch flinch. Everything is too loud, might wake Alpha up, might make him think it's Bitch being bad. He listens to the zipper, to the slap of flesh on flesh, and then cringes as liquid splatters his thighs and up onto his ass, dripping down his skin slowly. He can barely smell the cum over the sharpness of the urine, but having it so _close_ without getting it into him is enough for his mouth to water, the Heat to ratchet higher.

The guard brings another, and Alpha responds from inside the cell telling them to do whatever the fuck they feel like with the useless bitch, but he's trying to sleep. They bang the bars, warning him for his tone, but the second guard finally pisses on Bitch through the bars as well before moving on. And through it all, muscles shaking, tears stinging his eyes, Bitch stays where he is: with his forehead pressed to the rough concrete, his hips high, hands holding his ass open for all to see, splattered in cum as his empty aching hole leaks slick.

Bitch pisses himself at three hours, adding to the puddle beneath him, bladder unable to hold it any longer as it spills from the slots at the top of the cage. Somehow that's even worse than being urinated on. He's not allowed to make a sound, so Bitch cries silently, body shaking though he's trying to be absolutely still, humiliated and degraded.

At three and a half hours, the lights buzz in warning and then snap on, and Alpha stirs. He can hear him moving, hear him walking closer, and then he's pissed on again, Alpha letting loose a long stream as Bitch’s shoulders shake with his silent sobbing. He doesn't speak, just moves about his morning like Bitch isn't there, pulling on his orange jumpsuit and grabbing his toiletries  and a white jumpsuit, and when the gates slide open he still doesn't speak. Doesn't give Bitch permission to move, and after so long of silence the noise is nearly deafening when the footsteps of prisoners coming around ring out, greetings and snarling, and finally the _laughter_ when they see Bitch as they pass by.

The laughter always hurts the most, rips at his consciousness, at his tattered sense of self. _Other_ hated being humiliated, was frightened of it: Bitch doesn’t know how he knows that, he just does.

“That's one dirty bitch.” Bitch recognizes the voice from The Yard, one of Alpha’s friends, and Alpha barks a laugh (his laugh is worst).

“You know how she is about showers, figured I’d give her a reason to need it. You're welcome to dirty her up more if you feel like it. I just don't recommend touching her. For obvious reasons. I’m sure you can get it up again before breakfast, if you want to take care of that..”

Bitch doesn't move as Alpha’s friend circles around him, standing at his head. He can hear the grunt of him jerking off, but Bitch doesn't move. “Gonna do a redo of the showers then? Think Jessie woulda liked that. Woulda liked to see this little bitch grab ankle.”

A hand snatches Bitch’s hair, and he grimaces and bites down on his lip to keep from crying out, making a sound, as he struggles to keep position, struggles to keep his head down and not disobey, until Alpha lazily tells him that Earl is allowed to move him. The other Alpha, Earl, scowls at him like he was being disobedient (he _wasn't, he couldn't move, couldn't)_ and keeps jerking his cock, holding Bitch’s face level with it.

Bitch falls still, waiting, lips parted and gaze focused when Alpha’s voice snaps out, sharp and commanding. “Close your fucking mouth, whore, and don't you dare try and lick it up without me telling you to.”

He _needs_ so badly, so empty, and despite himself he whines when he closes his mouth and his eyes along with it. And then Earl is coming, pumping his load onto Bitch’s face, down his neck, and it drips down his body, and it’s _wasted,_ Bitch’s body wracked in fever pains, slick making his thighs stick together where he kneels, body pumping pheromones to entice them that they can't even smell over all the piss, all of his muscles quaking as he finally breaks, sobbing openly.

“Get on your feet, you dumb bitch. You don't deserve to be touched when you're filthy like this. We’re going to go take a shower. If you finish your punishment and then ask me nicely, my friends and I will fuck you when you're cleaned up. Now, _walk slowly to the showers._ You made a lot of enemies, last time you went to the showers, and not everyone got to come to playtime. But everyone deserves to see what happens to a bad bitch.”

Naked, covered in cum and piss, caged limp cock emphasizing the lack of balls beneath, bowed legs doing nothing to hide the slick sliding down his thighs, Bitch walks four steps ahead of Alpha, on his own, in front of everyone in the cell block, as everyone jeers and laughs, gives suggestions on how to deal with a bad bitch, sneers at his shaking, at his crying. When the first flings cum at him from inside his cell, it becomes a game: spit, piss and cum, a gauntlet from one side of the cell block to the other, and Alpha joins in the laughter, accepting the congratulations for bringing the bitch down.

In the showers, Bitch is commanded beneath the spray of a showerhead near the center of the room, the water raining down on him sluicing away the filth, and he rubs the rough washcloth tossed at him over his body when commanded, his mind going distant and blank. This room frightens him, amplifying every noise, every jeer, every sound. Across the room, one alpha stares at him sadly, familiar from the Yard and from Before. He is the only one silent as Alpha snatches his hair and collar and drags him down, folded in half, his ass thrust out at Alpha’s friends.

As his body is fucked at both ends, mouth sucking instinctively, hole slick and clenching, Bitch lets himself slip when the pain lessens, floating, detached.

He doesn’t want to be present here.

So he won’t be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, "Mate," will take us back to Sam's point of view.


End file.
